


The Harbinger

by troll_under_the_bridge



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (Comics)
Genre: AU with superpowers, As always - Poor Charles, Drama, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Multi, so is Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 12:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8144536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troll_under_the_bridge/pseuds/troll_under_the_bridge
Summary: He, who wants to change the world, or a fraction of it, needs resources to do so. Namely, money. Possibly, the only thing Charles was never concerned about until recently.





	

 

.

I

.

Why people like the concept of milestones? Maybe, it gives their life a necessary semblance of conquering entropy, in other words, establishing order. Charles knew about the workings of the human mind firsthand and he was aware of constant need to label and to frame events. Well, in that case, whatever happened that night could be labeled a true tipping point in his life.

Neither the tragic accident, which has seemingly deprived him of nearly every foundation he was building his existence upon, neither the loss and betrayal he experienced later, nor the collapse of his professional path before he dared to step on it. All these events were like canvas, some background to fill with new palette. And, out of all colours, that significant evening was painted black.

It was well late after dark, on one windy evening in autumn, and trafficin the city was the very definition of an incomprehensible jam. It was therefore not a coincidence that the train was overpacked. As though it сould burst like a tart fruit of metal kind. Inside, the air was akin to that on swamps: heavy and stuffy, and oppressively humid because of rain, evaporating off people's clothes. Someone has tried to push the window open, but it didn't give in all the way. The slight gap was all an unknown person achieved.

For once, coming back tentatively hopeful, Charles was content to hang on to the railings and sway with the crowd for the time being. With reluctance bordering on drowsiness, he could acutely register the back of his shirt stuck to his skin, the uncomfortable and fundamental weight of his coat on his shoulders, his otherwise accommodating scarf felt as alien irritating heat, particularly unwelcome on the back of his neck. His skin has already forgotten the cold. It warmed up significantly, instead, and he started feeling slightly feverish overall. Charles tightened the grip on his briefcase, looking at his dim reflection in the opposite window.

It was then that he saw a hand obviously probing his coat pocket. The owner of the said hand, a thin man in a dirty green hat almost covering his eyes, was looking in the opposite direction.

Good luck discovering anything valuable, Charles thought idly, woozily.

The crowd swirled and parted and the most of it floated through open doors. Charles looked around thinned out carriage, discreetly, and noticed that the man in the green hat squashed himself into a free seat behind his back, pulling out his phone. Oblivious to Charles' stare he hunched over it.

Despite ragged clothes, his phone was one of these unfairly expensive models, and Charles felt a bout of suspicion rising, overcoming drowsiness. He wished he could scan the other's surface thoughts; only to make sure that he is not followed by one of Marko's goons he was warned about. That unfortunate thought did nothing good, for it brought forth only sorrow.

A blast of sound and a flash of light signaled arrival to next station.

Every single thing suddenly became exaggerated: the ominous flickering of lights overhead, gloomy faces surrounding him, sudden torturous railings' squealing. His heart was beating faster and faster as he stood there, pretending to be calm. There was something weird happening with his blood pressure. The rush of it began beating against his ears, his temples. From the inside. His breaths came short and strangled. It was pattering all over him, so as soon as the doors swished open, not his stop yet but never mind, he stumbled out onto the platform and hurried to the exit.

And walked out into drizzle and wind. It was like getting slapped in the face by autumn — came a ridiculous thought.

Charles didn't hesitate. He immediately started down the side street and around the corner — aiming for a shortcut through area, where abandoned warehouses, and all that washed out graffiti, bleed into grey and dull suburbia.

Very soon, cold swept over him again, crawling in the gap left by partly unbuttoned coat. It also numbed his nose and cheeks. Bending down his head just a bit, he pulled up his collar, trying to wind the scarf one handed. A sharp gust of wind blinded him for a split second and he collided into someone — someone clad in a leather jacket wet with rain. Charles, fingers tightly clutching the stranger's elbow for balance and apology on his lips, looked up.

"I'm terribly sorry. Please, excuse me," he uttered hurriedly before his eyes even focused on a rough-looking, decidedly unkempt man.

Under uneven play of street lights versus shadows, the man's facial expression seemed marked by unpleasant harshness. A snarl, perhaps. Despite poor visibility, his eyes had that piercing quality that worked like magnet, forcing Charles to stare, impolitely, for longer than it was strictly necessary.

"Let go," said the man then.

Charles did.

He felt ashamed. He felt fearful too, because this was not an area to wander at night and Charles suspected that his attempts to blend in are mediocre at best.

He darted a quick glance over the man's shoulder and discovered a wannabe pickpocket rounding the corner.

He was utterly and completely unprepared to be shoved against the wall.

Gunshots followed just as he gave a startled cry. Charles stumbled, scraping his palm on the rough wall, and quickly twisted his head around.

What he saw first was the man in the green hat. On the ground. A gun still in his slackened grip. Obscurity notwithstanding, dark patches on his torn jacket were slowly spreading. It was terrifying to see that silent meaningful motion.

Charles could not make a sound.

Instead, he leaned against the wall, his knees shaking, fairly and irrationally sure that he is next, when something distracted him. Setting his jaw, he glanced at the other man. Noticed, that he was kneeling and holding his side.

A moment passed.

Does it mean that this one is not here to kill him? Therefore…

"Oh god!" Charles forced himself to rein in his panicking voice as he staggered to the kneeling man.

When he moved to touch him, he discovered his wrist in a slick, tight grip. Faster than in a blink.

"For your own sake, don't do that," the man said irritably.

"Do what?"

Charles reclaimed his wrist after the man released him. A question, as inane as the situation itself, made him wince post factum.

"Don't sneak up from behind."

Still favoring his side, he stood up. Charles thought he had collected himself enough, yet now came the difficult part. The reality of facing a dead body was not setting well.

When the question was already on the tip of his tongue, he bit the inside of his cheek to prevent any noise from escaping. He saw the lid of the nearby manhole floating up in the air and witnessed as his savior casually pushed the corpse in the opening. With a few curt gestures.

The lid landed back with certain finality.

Charles felt torn between a fairly strong impulse to gag and mild fascination.

"Listen, forget what you saw or else —"

"I understand. Thank you for protecting me," he hurried to say and, gathering up remaining courage, added. "Now, can you, please, come with me? Obviously, you need help and I will be more than glad to offer you some."

He was choosing his words carefully, once again overcome by regret that he couldn't use his powers. Twice in an hour, reminded himself Charles. Here he stops. He won't dwell on bygone more often than it is absolutely necessary.

"Please," seeing the man turn his back, Charles grew desperate. "Please, don't disappear like that."

Rain started for real.

Charles' fringe immediately got plastered to his forehead, dripping water in his eyes. So maybe weather was his accomplice for once.

.

II

.

His rented flat, or, rather, a shoe box bedroom and a kitchenette slash living room, was in the side wing of a former hostel. Disrepair would be exactly the word one might be looking for, while admiring flaking wallpaper and splotches of mold showing through whitewashed ceiling. As for furniture, it was, well, aged.

"I hope, Erik is your real name."

"It is," his guest said and suddenly added gravely, barely audible. "A dead man's name."

Charles takes hold of his phrase and stores it for future consideration.

"Unfortunately, it's not much. But I do have a spare towel and a blanket. Also, a pillow," Charles promises, struggling with a grouchy chest.

He tries to be gentle, because otherwise an old TV box, precariously perched on the chest, might fall on his head. Charles would rather avoid it.

The lowest drawer is stuck again. He tugs at it and feels a spasm through his lower back. It comes with hot pulling sensation and Charles carefully straightens up, afraid to jostle it further.

"Could you," he makes a frustrated gesture, pointing at the disobedient piece. "I'm sorry. Usually, I refrain from such kind of physical excitements," he chuckles a touch hysterically.

Erik has been expecting some sort of breakdown for a while. Having seen his share of deaths, which was considered impressive even in his former field, he got used to different patterns of panic displayed by civilians. His bets were on Charles talking himself out of it.

"I have just witnessed a murder," Charles' tone is disbelieving, "and his death is my fault. I never thought… Oh my. I should have thought I couldn't go on like that."

Looking up from extracting bed linen, Erik studies Charles.

"How is it your fault?"

"I have reasons to believe that he had already been tracking me. I saw him. Earlier, on the train," explains Charles abruptly and Erik stops short.

His tired eyes fell on Charles, standing very stiff and erect. He looks like he is in his mid-twenties; the blue of his eyes and floppiness of his smooth hair the most prominent features about him. Had he made a huge mistake coming here, Erik wondered briefly. But that dispatcher had nearly got him and Charles obviously thought Erik was acting on his account. He considered flinging the truth back at him — about being hunted down and thus taken to nomad existence, that he mistook the confrontation for an attempt on his life. Ridiculous, of course, — to confront him with a plain gun. On the other hand, not many knew what exactly he was capable of.

"Someone wants to kill you?"

Charles took his time to answer.

"Probably. I don't know. Crime rates are getting out of hand now. He might have been just a robber."

Erik looked at him blankly.

"He wasn't. He had readied a gun before turning at the corner."

"If you are right," Charles shivers. "Of course, you're right. You can sense these things. But me, I didn't want anyone to die for this," he says harshly, with anguish.

The sound of the electric kettle switching off disturbed Charles. His head jerked, ever so slightly, at the sudden noise.

"Charles, you've got time. Though, I'd say, you need to get off the grid. The sooner the better."

Funny thing, Erik muses inwardly; no one is even considering notifying the police.

"Hardly a resort, isn't it?"

Charles makes a sweeping gesture. Erik refrains from staring at the signs of decay and thinks that, well, Charles' point is clear.

"But, I can't afford running now," Charles returns steadily.

His face sets in a concentrated frown. Erik, in his turn, discovers that he senses something akin to his own desperation lurking behind that expression. It was like a wild lightning splitting up the sky and flashing over previously dark, uncanny valley. For a split second, he sees what's hidden. He feels deeply weirded-out.

"In any case, don't let me burden you more than I already have. Tea?" Charles offers.

So quick his lapse from anxiety back to exhaustion was, that Erik paused, because for an instant he couldn't remember what he was supposed to say to that. He put a mental lid on thinking about what has just happened. Instead, he nodded and Charles directed him to a shower: a tiny cubicle as run down as entire apartment.

After peeling off his clothes Erik scrutinized the graze left by the bullet. Just shy of going right into spleen. He got sloppy, couldn't focus properly and that was more than enough to sign his own death-warrant should the situation repeat itself. The bruises, now darkened and spread over his chest and abdomen, were telling a story of a man in so much debt to dumb luck, that sometimes Erik thought he should be thankful to some protective charm.

He also wonders whether Charles has any secret motive. He hasn't given away the smallest indication that he might pose a threat yet. Erik thought it was not impossible though. Well, he recalls Mystique, a woman so skilled she could imitate your own mother and stub you through the heart with knitting needles when you lean in for an awkward hug.

Steam succeeds in forcing him into a heavy, yet oddly light-headed state. A dangerous backlash of sleep deprivation laced with too much adrenalin.

Everything becomes a little too dulled.

Conceding Charles' earlier offer, he tugs at the easy-tear hygiene package and fishes up a razor.

It was a trifle comic that Charles drew back as soon as Erik emerged in the kitchen.

"Erik?... You are back," he said, poorly masked surprise evident.

The grime was gone as well as stubble. His appearance, when washed, struck Charles. Fine fair highlights in Erik's drying hair and well-defined features were quite a surprise. His hair curled over his ears, but it was a far cry from what Charles looked like after shower. Erik was all angles and straight lines. He had put on Charles' spare T-shirt, though he refused to toss away his jeans, and now, in quasi domestic attire, there stood a stranger. Certainly, not the man he met on the street.

"I've made us sandwiches," Charles put the plate on the counter to illustrate the invitation.

However, the anonymous narrator inside his head was cynical about his firm decision to be a better he followed Erik's gaze and realized that he was pointedly eyeing small kitchen table piled with newspapers, tangled cables and wires and boxes with equipment, then, his eyes swept around the flat. Since circumstances made Charles move here he's never felt as much shame as he does now, in the face of that appraising look. Vivid, pink-flowered wallpaper of the eye-washing design started to seem less affronting, and, even, oddly cheery at times. Not to mention, cupboards, already shedding blue paint around the handles and revealing greyish yellow underneath.

What he misses in the picture are some domestic pests, like mice or cockroaches, sharing living quarters with him. Fortunately or not, absent for now.

"Have you got a chair?" asks Erik reluctantly, having completed his inspection.

And Charles suddenly understands why he is looking for a seat. It is not how he looks, though there is nothing healthy about his ghastly complexion, but the underlying edge in his voice, as if he, himself, can't actually believe that he is asking for something as mundane as that. Without his extra senses, Charles falls within a guessing field. The metaphorical bruises are plenty, but, this man, this one, Charles is almost sure — Erik feels like a man pushed to his limits.

"There's one. Just a minute," Charles feels a rush of heat, probably flooding his cheeks, and promptly flees the room.

The sole chair he owns is next to bed, and he usually uses it to prop his laptop.

"Here you are," he brings the chair and Erik sits down. Not too fast and holding onto the counter for balance.

"I assume you're staying the night," Charles ventures. "You can take the bed."

"It's too generous," Erik says and Charles feels lost, as it usually happens when he is extremely distressed.

Is he being sarcastic? Is he declining? Is he just pointing out a fact?

"Charles? Is something wrong?"

"Y-yes, actually. But," he stops next question with a shake of his head.

Erik watches him with calm expectation and Charles starts talking all of the sudden.

"I want to tell you, however, I often worry about misunderstanding people and misinterpreting their reactions. If I'm bothering you, let me know and I will stop," Erik gives him a nod to continue. "Very well. I'm a mutant, just like you. I used to be a telepath. If you're questioning my word choice, this is alright. I often do it myself."

"Something happened?"

"Something did happen,"Charles stuttered as his eyes grew hot and irritated. "Sorry, I need to stop."

"Alright," simply says Erik.

"And, by the way, it's not a one-time offer. I am serious. You can stay for as long as you need. I can always spare a bed for a person who saved my life."

As Charles began talking along, flowingly, softly, explaining their sleeping arrangements and arguing about who would take the bed, Erik nearly drifted away, to the land where his own specters were awaiting. Feeling no taste at all, he drank and ate, and then he slept.

.

III

.

Quite justified into sleeping well into afternoon, Erik let his head thump back onto the pillow. The bed, huh? He recalls denying Charles' attempts to make him as comfortable as possible, but he might have lost. And now, after a well-deserved rest, Erik comes up with a surname — Xavier. His new acquaintance was definitely on the list, next to a dull profile picture, probably a driving license photo, in the catalogue labeled psionics. Right this instant Erik is sure. However, this fact is no big deal. After all, the organization is frantically attempting to track all existing mutants.

In the kitchen he finds a note stuck to the kettle.

Charles' handwriting is comfortably legible, rounded.

_Good morning, Erik!_

_I'd like to remind you that my offer stands and I expect to see you in the evening. Please, rest. Feel free to frisk the fridge. Nevertheless, should you choose to leave, so be it. But, please, lock the door before you go. And on the off chance you decide to take anything, do spare the kettle. I am particularly attached to it._

Sighing, Erik resticks the note to the cupboard and fills the kettle. To find a polite note for a potential thief is not something one can be ready for. Part of him, the one which doesn't feel confused, feels slightly offended and mildly entertained.

Keeping in mind Charles' earlier instruction, he discovers tea and a few semi-fresh bagels on the upper shelf cupboard.

While drinking tea he thinks of Charles. Thinks about his raw pain and confusion.

Not to diminish his peril, but, well, he'd only lost his gift, or, Erik's guess is — the ability to access it. Many have suffered incomparably more; many were reduced to a condition of a thing, to abominations. Scary, but dispensable. Mutants, in general, were not yet considered worthy of sympathy. Erik didn't draw it from imagination: he has done some of the most horrible things himself. Whenever he read or listened to any recital of the cruelties he knew that many more were silenced. Is it even possible for the human mind to conceive of a more horrible state of society?

The need to clear his head drives him outside.

Erik shuts the door with his power, firmly, and, lord forbid, leaves the kettle on its rightful place.

.

IV

.

Equality Day and Charles were equals in age.

Frankly, the day, when mutant liberation movement is meant to be universally celebrated, has mutated over the years with speed unheard of. Personally, Charles always treasured a peculiarly valuable recollection, the early insight he'd got when he first saw the Equality parade on TV. He wasn't even four at that time. The demonstration looked so joyful, so colorful and vivacious, that he immediately wished the screen was a magic portal. So that he could touch it and get sucked in it. He remembers his decision to try and test his theory. He approached the TV and cautiously touched the screen. His thoughts were filled with fearful anticipation and trepidation. There was this profound and inane belief in wonder every child shares. And his was supported by actual wonderful things happening around.

Now, he pauses, glued to pavement, watching people march by. They are mostly young. When they pass, he can hear them talking, laughing. The leaders are shouting orders. Looking so normal and easy-going, so human, they are holding the hand-made posters.

 _"Mutants, get out of my sight!"_ is the most polite.

Charles keeps his face blank. He doesn't know how well he manages, because he feels unwell. And he used to think he had built up his tolerance. Wishful thinking. That what it was. That calm and confident, and cautiously optimistic Charles, with his mutation at his disposal, was gone.

He lets his thoughts drift.

Such protesting marches looked like spontaneous, badly organized radical rallies at first. It changed soon. Citizens must be very much against mutant's ill-timed exposure, indeed,— wisely commented one of the presidential candidates at the time, and the chain-reaction that followed, spawned countless debates, countless and this time violent riots, accompanied by arsons, break-ins and, the most horrible of all, brutal assaults. Every time Charles thinks back to it he gets a little sick. Of course, as it usually happens, people who suffered were the most defenseless ones; their mutations, physically prominent, but nonetheless harmless, made them beacons for angry mob.

After waiting for the crowd to pass, Charles quickly crosses the street, comes to a minute hold by the door.

A сafé seems to be almost deserted. He sees that much through tinted glass.

Surprisingly, it is quite large inside. You can never tell that from the looks of it. It is also boasting artistic photography collection, decorating the walls in chaotic disarray. Some soft, unobtrusive music in the background gets along with teasing smells of bitter coffee, vanilla, and tiny traces of nutmeg.

"Charles! Good to see you again," Moira greets him from the table in the back.

Bright cherry lipstick looks vibrant against her fair skin.

In her presence Charles tends to relax, but today it is not possible, unfortunately.

"You're always so busy, my dear. Haven't seen you for ages. How are you doing?" he asks casually, while a waiter serves them drinks.

Her eyes crinkle, a sign of amusement, though her mouth is set in a neutral line. Moira is so much better at mitigation and social maneuvering than he is lately. She is also very honest and straightforward. How she balances these features is still a mystery.

"I had a personalannual interview with mister Marko yesterday."

She lowers her voice conspiratorially.

"If he is suspecting you… No, Moira, if he even as much as thinks of suspecting you —"

"Charles, don't. In that case, it is going to be my own fault for not being cautious enough," she shakes her head. "I'm breaking law not exclusively for you, but because I want to do what is right."

Moira is very apt to incline Charles to lose his words. She covers his hand with hers, passing him something cold and elongated. A thumb drive? To anyone watching, it might seem a common tender gesture.

"Be careful."

"Thank you. And don't worry. I'm almost done."

"Yes, I know."

Charles experiences a bout of disappointment when she takes her hand away. For a few seconds he feels longing, but he doesn't flatter himself that Moira can change her mind to his enjoyment. She was quite adamant about it.

"Back to business, or, rather talking about business."

"I won't interrupt again," promises Charles

"I don't mind. Well, you said you wanted to hear my own thoughts. What do I say? For the sake of preserving professional integrity, we don't need a blatant opportunist in charge. I believe, that now is the crucial time, when investor sentiments are volatile as well as economic environment. And after that disappointing loss overseas, we can't bounce back without any major, and I mean really major, changes. Our meeting with Mr. Marko has also fastened the idea that he knows nothing about actual science."

Then, she lapses into her favorite topic and his eyes drink a draught of her collected excitement.

"And, Charles, I'm sure now that your cognitive abilities are also part of your mutation. It appears so awful, that they scrapped our global research. Look in the dark pit where genetics is now. And not only genetics."

"I wish everyone was as concerned as you."

"When I'm thinking about all incredible and promising benefits for the entire human race we could be harvesting, I simply don't know… If it's not, well, you get the idea," she finishes abruptly.

Charles lowers his eyes and gives Moira time to compose herself. He looks into his cup at the thick blackness of his coffee. The cup is already cold to touch. It appears he's missed that perfect moment to enjoy neither hot nor lukewarm drink.

"Any changes?"

Here comes the question he's been dreading to hear.

"No, nothing."

Charles finished his coffee quickly.

Two years have passed, but it doesn't get any easier.

Moira, concerned and fully aware of unsafe subject, gets very clinical whenever the topic of his possible recovery is breached — which is a relief in some way. No earthy technology is able to rid a person of mutation without killing or otherwise turning the said person into a handicap, she used to say. She thought he couldn't sense anything not because of physical trauma, though it should be taken into account, but because he had somehow blocked his abilities. Unintentionally. Moira was insistent that cortical areas in the brain, that have multi-synaptic connections, control every organ and their functioning. It was "all in his head". As a fellow scientist, Charles tended to support that theory too. At times. That did little to no good, as it only made him frustrated with himself.

Shifting in the chair, Charles can't contain a wince. It seems, his sitting time is up.

They walk together a bit as the weather has mercy and sky clears.

En route, Moira mentions a charity pro-mutant concert she is attending in the evening and Charles thinks she actually wants to invite him. On the pretext of another meeting, he refuses before the offer is voiced.

With this might come implications, and he basically can't afford it. Moira is better off not knowing how he makes ends meet these days. Without a steady job or, say, access to his inheritance. It was not his original intention to misguide her, but, when it came to it, he decided to maintain the pretense. To play it as though, he is just lying low and waiting for his time to claim back everything Marko seized.

.

V

.

Suffice to say, Erik considered leaving the city for good.

Keep moving on and on, at constant velocity.

Yet, as night falls and city glow rises, he finds himself standing on the roof of building opposite Charles' place. Light is on. Charles is probably back by now.

After roaming the area, which was decidedly uglier in daylight, he discovered that the body wasn't found and no word about shooting could be heard on the streets. Newspapers he's snatched from the stall were silent on the subject. That was good. But was that "good" safe enough?

Erik has done so many things not to get himself killed.

Thus, even standing there, he can't fully comprehend the reason for his return. This confusing decision and, perhaps, other things, unnamed for now, prompt him to take a step forward.

The prudent idea to try and not startle Charles misfired.

When he knocks on the window, Charles drops some contraption he was holding and gapes. He is lucky that it is metal and therefore Erik catches it before it hits the floor.

Charles immediately sags in relief.

"Evening, Charles. Will you let me in?"

Erik pushes open the window, hovering outside. Yeah, that wasn't his brightest idea, in hindsight.

"Of course, Nosferatu," Charles chuckles, still a little wild-eyed. "I didn't know, — I had so little opportunity to get familiar with your powers. You mentioned magnetism before, but, but you failed to mention flying. Ah, I see," his face lights up, "the planet itself must grant you power. Well now, come in. What about dinner? It's heating up as we're speaking."

"I won't deny I'm hungry."

"Good."

Erik sits down in the same scruffy chair again. The contraption Charles was holding earlier has joined the stock of partially dismantled devices on the kitchen table. Curious, he notices the shell belonging to a portable radio transmitter, a microcircuit chip, two circuit boards. A distinctive smell of melted metal coats the kitchen. Ah, it must be a smoldering iron.

"Don't mind the mess. I'll have you know — I usually keep my workstation in decent order."

Charles' speech is marginally perkier today.

"What exactly are you doing?"

"I'm starting from scratch, quite literally. Now, I'm learning while dismantling our company's old devices and tinkering with my personal project. Not how I fancied my future occupation, but I rather like it."

"I recall your last name now, I guess. Xavier?"

Charles draws back. In his defense, he schools his face almost immediately. Only his voice, low and hoarse, gives him away.

"Well, yeah. That means you know —"

"Have no idea whatsoever. News was not my concern for a while."

"Like for years?" Charles asks incredulously.

"Yes, something like that."

"You didn't miss a lot of good things, I have to admit."

"I bet."

His lips outlined a pale smile, which didn't reach his eyes. Erik makes a mental note on how often Charles does this — smiles without smiling.

"Where do I begin? It's not going to be a linear story, so brace yourself. Before the accident, which rid me of my ability, I poured all of me into neuroscience. I used to believe the field was made for me: as a telepath I could go where no one ever could. I could, arguably, overwrite everything we've ever known about human brain. As you might guess, it didn't work out."

Charles catches his gaze, pulls out of his pocket a dark, sleek thing, which looks like an egg cut in half. He flips flat bottom on his palm and presses at the top.

It is, well, Erik doesn't know what it is. The shabby kitchen disappeared and he finds himself in a dimly-lit study, sitting in a plush armchair. The new room smells different — like books and wood. Merry crackling of makes him turn his head left. He takes in a fireplace, red tongues licking logs, shadows shimmering on the opposite wall.

"You're one of these people who show, not tell," he huffs, turning back to Charles.

"Yes, I am."

Erik runs his hand over the armrest. He is sure that's suede under his skin. It feels stunning.

"And where is this?"

"This is a study in my ancestral mansion. Had Kurt Marko not pushed for an alleged incapacitated person," Charles pronounces with a wry twist to his lips, "I would be leaving there."

"Marko as in Marko Enterprises?"

"Exactly. He's changed the name after my parents' death, a next friend that he was. Always extra careful to protect me from publicity. And, I quote him — spent a fortune on guarding my privacy and defending my interests, while I was screwing about in the university."

Erik tilts his head up.

The ceiling is high. Richly decorated.

Windows are huge. Heavy, majestic curtains resemble moss. The same can be said about carpet underneath his feet. Damn. Erik drags one foot and the carpet stoops, arching up in protest. Hardly the same floor cloth from Charles' place. It flickers then and everything comes back to normal.

"What you've just witnessed is a neuroholographic projection. A prototype was programmed by my father. There is only one location in it. I plan to add more. The Markos don't know of its' existence yet. If they only knew, they wouldn't say no to obtaining it, I wager," Charles' eyes darken. "I hope to make this my game changer. To prove that the potential financial gain from me is higher than that from Kurt Marko in charge. As soon as I collect all paperwork and data to prove that the original alterations of board were not sanctioned by my father, I'll make my move."

"Why tell me this?"

"Because you came back. Because I owe you my life. Because you seem reliable."

Charles ends up ruffling his hair. A recent habit.

"I suppose I can watch your back, while you are doing whatever you are doing," surprises him Erik. "But mind it, I have made plenty of enemies of my own."

"That's fine," Charles relaxed into something like a shrug. "Enemies we can share. I promise I will pay you back, when I —"

"It is not about that," he cuts Charles off and Charles understands that he, probably, misread the situation again.

"Do you mind if I use your shower?"

"Suit yourself. Don't bother asking next time."

After dinner, Erik insisted on doing the dishes. Charles didn't protest. He was content just watching him, pleasantly sated and sleepy. Better, he thought, it feels so much better with Erik around. Grounding him. Giving him something to focus on. A tiny tendril of safety.

Thoughtfully, Charles looks at the perpetually slow clock and adds a quarter to time displayed by it. Oh? It is that late?

"It's almost midnight," he glances back at Erik, who is wiping his hands with overdue diligence. "We could have missed Equality Day entirely!"

"Such a tremendous loss. Wait, what are you doing?"

Erik stops torturing the towel and hangs it on a lone hook.

Determined, Charles pulls out his half empty bottle of guilty pleasure bourbon and puts it on the counter with emphasis. This bourbon is sweet and a touch oaky, the perfect blend of wood and smoky overall. Tonight, he's pleased that he can actually share it with Erik.

"Look, I won't pretend this holiday hasn't been screwed up due to unfortunate circumstances. I'm well aware that we, mutants, are not faring well, and that's putting it mildly. But then again, the initial idea was brilliant. A day to forget our differences and to unite."

The way Erik is holding his gaze throughout this little speech stirs up something vulnerable in Charles. It boosts his courage as well. Without really meaning to, he edges closers and puts his hand on Erik's shoulder. Erik stills, but he doesn't brush him off.

"Will you drink with me?"

"To what?" asks Erik at last.

"To the future we will win back."

Erik smiles thinly. Not unkindly, observes Charles.

"Tone down your ambitions, Charles. Let's focus on simple survival."

They clink mugs, owning to absence of glasses. His is cheerful blue and Erik's is white with inane pink hearts on it. All of the sudden, Charles gets overcome with sheer ridiculousness of it. He splutters with laughter, all pent-up tension fighting its' way up, through his crumbling sense of propriety.

This time, Erik grins for real too. He's got wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and, in Charles' opinion, they make Erik look friendlier as they map his smile nicely. Ah, it's good to see him do that.

Charles closes his eyes and takes a swig. It burns and soothes his throat simultaneously. When heady rush of alcohol hits his bloodstream, he almost feels as if everything is going great.

.

VI

.

He, who wants to change the world, or a fraction of it, needs resources to do so. Namely, money. Possibly, the only thing Charles was never concerned about until recently.

Charles gives Erik his watch with parting words:

"This is a white gold case, a chronograph is impeccable. What else?" he sighs. "Try to negotiate the best price. It's a rainy day item, so just — just make sure that we have enough to get by."

"I'll make sure the price is fair," answers Erik with a humorous nonchalance which sends a shiver down his spine. Which Charles ignores, for he is smothering gnawings of conscience on daily basis lately. He wonders whether he will eventually become immune to its' pricks.

They part their ways by the station.

Crowd is bustling in the street in front of the Mutant Centre building. It is not a surprise per se. Such things happen on regular basis. But Charles feels that something is wrong as he approaches it. There are a few reporters in the crowd as well as policemen trying to pacify people. Their voices are getting more and more annoyed. A couple of staff members are standing by the doors in guarding stances. Charles has never seen these two young men before, though he is not a regular guest, to tell the truth.

Charles usually tries to avoid clusters of people. He is wary of being spotted, even though his face is not that recognisable thanks to Kurt.

He looks around.

A teen, wearing a bright red hoody, is sitting on one of the concrete steps leading up to the building. It certainly takes some audacity to smoke and pointedly ignore the crowd and the no-smoking sign.

"Alex," Charles approaches him quickly. "What happened?"

"Who are you?" asks Alex suspiciously.

"Sorry. My name's Charles. I was at funfair last week. Your coordinator, Mr. Platt and I had a meeting, and you were —"

"I remember you now."

Alex was one of the troubled kids made to attend the Centre, as Charles understood.

"They have kicked up a stink, because someone ratted that, they say, mutants, definitely from here, were seen vandalizing municipal building last night."

"I see. And why are you here, outside, if it's not a secret?"

"I feel stressed," Alex puts out a cigarette and stomps on it. He looks down at the butt then, and picks it up with a scowl. "Bad things happen when I'm stressed, so I cool down outside."

Detaching from expectations gives people an excuse to talk. That's why Charles doesn't ask Alex the obvious — for instance: why smoke or why you aren't at school.

"Can you show me another way inside?" he asks softly. "I'd rather avoid the crowd, if you know what I mean."

Alex squints up at him.

In a flash of insight, Charles decides to keep his mouth shut and patiently withstands the scrutiny. He has no inkling of what is on Alex's mind. He could only hope, Alex doesn't think of him as some uppish guy, piggy-backing on the already struggling community, because Charles thinks that at times. He is neither at the moment. Neither a mutant nor a regular human. Just an unfortunate sod stuck in limbo. And he is extremely lucky that a local man of law was inclined to listen to his story and even believed him.

"Okay, come with me."

At first, Charles thought, Alex was going to play a trick on him.

They walk round the block, cutting through tiny passage between buildings. Everything is so bleak that it makes him hungry for colour. As they proceed, he steps on something muddy, an abandoned toy he guesses, and it squeals under his heel. A stray cat darts past them with a furious cry. The pathway is soggy and dirty and Charles smells unspeakable things, before they come out on the other side, right into what happens to be a small enclosure garden. The garden, though lifeless this time of year, is tended to. The dried mops of grass encircle tidy flower beds. Young trees seem healthy. There is a simple swing and a seesaw squeezed in the far corner. Must be charming in spring, muses Charles.

"Hey, Charles!"

"Coming," he speeds up after Alex.

"This is our garden," explains Alex proudly. "There used to be some fuss about land, but we have won. Legally."

"It's wonderful here."

Alex is by no means a fool. He measures Charles up, with cold blue eyes, and then he huffs. As though Charles has passed some test. He pushes open the garden gate at the back and Charles sees a door in the otherwise unfamiliar redbrick building. Or not unfamiliar. Ah, of course. The façade is painted differently, that's it.

Inside, his eyes can't get used to the dark at first. Large buildings like that bear a special sense of space. It is usually monumental. Sometimes the structure can appear too grand, distant. As though the human presence inside is very temporary and very unwelcome. That was not the case with this one. To Charles, it felt distinctly alive. He couldn't place that particular impression, so he let it be. He follows Alex down the bleak corridor, then they go up the stairs, then another corridor, less bleak, and it finally gets lighter when they turn around and find themselves in a lobby. There is only light buzz coming through closed doors. The crowd is gathering, it seems. The lobby itself is large empty space, save for two sets of chairs arranged in semi-circle. Also, there are fresh posters on the wall. Charles hasn't seen the one featuring a woman with a mask on her face. Glowing light seems to pour out of her body as she stands, hands on her hips, with her head held high. _I can hear a symphony of change_ — says the poster.

A girl at the reception desk attracts his attention with a cough. It's unbelievable that he missed her. She's got rebellious purple hair and intelligent blue eyes. She is strikingly pretty in a way that seems unreal. Elizabeth says her name tag.

When she sets her eyes on Alex she frowns at him, but he just nods at Charles and walks away.

"Mr. Platt is in court," notifies him Elizabeth.

The phone starts ringing, but she silences it, sparing it no further look.

"Did he —"

"Left anything for you? Yes, this folder."

Charles doesn't bother to hide his bewilderment.

"How do you — "

"A telepath. You're Charles and I should hand it personally. Am I right?"

She pointedly pushes the folder at him.

"Thank you. I hope your day doesn't get any worse."

Her smile is harassed, but at least it's there.

"I hope so too. Goodbye, Charles."

Charles exits the Centre through the garden.

He is thankful Alex for showing the way.

Clouds started gathering outside and what was supposed to be a sunny day, was turning gloomy and oppressive. Sun promptly slides behind a heavy cloud and the very instant it does, wind gets colder. Prompted by desire to escape from rain, Charles walks very fast. He keeps his head up, though, and makes note of people he sees and cars he passes. Soon, he feels some nagging on the periphery of his mind, a sense of wrongness he can't name. He slows down and stands to the side as though to fiddle with his phone. A man walks past him. Given that Charles is pretending to look at his phone, he sees only black shiny shoes striding past. He sensibly waits for a few minutes and starts walking again.

The sensation didn't disappear.

Nervous, Charles swallows a lump. There is someone watching him, he can swear. This sudden throwback to telepathy days makes his head reel.

A woman comes out of the shop he passes and starts walking behind him. He sees her reflection in shopping windows. And she is fine. She looks ordinary: middle-aged, blonde, tall. She is wearing huge sunglasses. Two young men pass Charles and go by her. Charles notices that she clutches her bag tighter as they walk past.

To alleviate his anxiety, he considers heading into the nearest shopping mall. If there are a lot of people, there's cover. He can try to catch his observer and, maybe, lose them. But, no, that won't do. He has a lot of work to do — Erik can't run all his errands. He needs to analyze the data Moira has provided him with and more...

Next alley will lead him directly to the main street. There, he can either wait for Erik or take the train. He ducks in the alley, careful not to swivel his head around, but to watch out of the corner of his eye. An elderly man turns at the corner, following him.

All of them are different people, thinks Charles rationally. While he is trying to talk himself into calming down, his hearts goes mad, his palms get sweaty. He wipes his fringe out of his eyes. No, this is absurd. Especially, this gray bearded wizened man. Who in their right mind can hire someone who is barely walking. Hardly your ideal candidate for a tail.

His eyes widen when he takes in a person ahead. Erik's thin form is hunched on the stairs, leading to a library if a sign doesn't lie. Erik is waiting for him, apparently.

"Erik? But we agreed to meet on the platform."

Charles is a bit edgy.

"I thought I could catch up with you earlier, since I'm already done," Erik gets up slowly and looks him over. "Is something wrong?"

In Erik's presence he gets incrementally bolder. When he finally turns around, there is no one behind him. The alley as he sees it is deserted.

.

VII

.

Evening goes by slowly.

Charles has buried himself in his legal paperwork and, it seems, has pulled all his attention inwards. He looks better when he is engaged in work, decides Erik. His posture is perfect. The spine straight and rigid, but the way he cocks his head and makes other, tiny, gestures, like picking up a pencil, is smooth. Charles is a contradiction — he settles for a thought, satisfied with observation.

Erik, a mug of coffee in his hand, is looking out of the window at dark suburban landscape. This far from the glowing city the satellite area mostly consists of apartment complexes of moderate height, lit up in irregular patterns, and somewhat lower warehouses, scattered around. He suspects that warehouses were there first. Blessed be the darkness, because otherwise everything here looks like it must be scrubbed clean. That's why it's so refreshingly pleasing to be indoors rather than outside.

His strength is coming back. He isn't as exhausted as he was two days prior. Here he cringes, angry with himself for not being able to dodge simple bullets. He dimply remembers that someone sometime has told Erik that his pride is going to be his downfall. In the light of past events, he has to assume that such remark does make some sense.

A muffled sound of a siren and screech of tires break through the dark. Someone shrieks and someone else laughs in the street below. Erik doesn't bother to lower his gaze to see the source of commotion. He experiments, as an alternative for watching: stretches his awareness of magnetic fields further and further, always trying to outdo himself and test his limits. Maybe because he is more well-rested than he's been in months, it works, and he senses metal structures in relation to their position or movement. He drinks from the calm he has been feeling all day, because he knows from experience that the precious remedy never lasts, and realizes that his awareness spirals out a fraction too late. The entire world beats and pulses. It is in his head. And even his hands itch and that, he knows, it a novelty. What the hell is going on?

He forcefully calms himself down, while his hands are grabbing the edge of windowsill. The wave comes and subsides, leaving him not tired, but cleansed. Have I just?... Could I just sweep away this entire block? He certainly felt as if he could.

Lord almighty. He relaxes his hands, but doesn't step away from the windowsill. He is afraid that once he does, his feet might not obey.

Some mutants' abilities are tied to their wielders' emotions. That's why the unfortunate manifestation at times of distress. But he is not in distress. No, he's absolutely not. The suspicion rises. Is it Charles? But, no, again. That takes some insane level of deception skills to pretend that you've lost your powers and lay yourself open to any attack as a result. Erik dismisses a thought.

He gazes at Charles reflectively.

"I need a break," oblivious Charles meets his eyes across the room, not an instant too soon.

He rolls his shoulders back, then up, shrugging off stiffness. He didn't take the chair, Erik notices. He has just spread the papers on the table and was reading while standing upright. When Erik thinks of it, has he ever seen Charles sitting? Another oddity.

"Charles? A personal question?"

Charles nods.

"Why do you never use a chair?" as he is talking, another question springs to mind. "It is connected with the accident you mentioned?"

"You are right, my over-scrupulous friend," responds Charles with dry humour. "My back doesn't take well to sitting, especially for a long time. Unfortunately, basic manners are often against me as, say, try picture me dining in the restaurant and standing at the table. Because of it, I try to cut down on such challenging pastimes."

There is no right response for that in Erik's books.

"We can watch evening news and get upset together. How does that sound to you?" urges him Charles.

"Sounds like a nice idea," smirks Erik.

Erik goes to pat the TV box carefully and checks the socket. He knows that if he isn't careful, he can melt the circuits. That happened once. Meanwhile, Charles shuffles the papers aside.

The very first channel he clicks on is a miss — white noise and static.

Next is poor quality, but there's a shot of a glamorous woman, a newscaster follows up with:

_In her new hit, pop diva says that she's figured out what she needs, and it's a rejection of fairy tales about love._

"We're so glad that you informed us," rumbles Erik under his breath.

"Try next."

_Today is the anniversary of the horrific mass shooting, which has taken lives of forty eight students…_

"Next, please."

A flamboyant man in his forties smiles invitingly from the screen. His smile is simply dazzlingly charming.

_Good evening, folks! It's breaking news tonight! Only reliable sources! Only big time news! Tonight, we have soon to be confirmed revelation — there are mutants among our Government advisors. Stay tuned and you'll find out who has been hiding in plain sight all this time._

"No, no. Oh, god."

When Erik turns it off, Charles shakes his head and looks at him, faintly embarrassed and apologetic.

"I take my words back. We shouldn't have."

They stay in silence, until Charles breaks it with a sudden question.

"Erik, I wonder what you think of it. What would you do if you had a choice? Would you openly proclaim yourself a mutant, even if it could potentially damage every single aspect of your life? Or would you continue living as if nothing's the matter?"

"A personal question," hums Erik, deliberately stalling.

The truth is he doesn't know. He isn't as sure as he used to be.

"I'd say yes. I would. But, I am quite strong," Erik says unabashedly, "therefore, fear of repercussions is not an issue in my case."

Being honest with Charles is easy, he discovers. These things he had reflected on countless times tasted bitter, but that was the taste of his truth. How he perceived it.

"I thought about it too. Frankly, I grew up thinking about it and imagining it. What it would be like," Charles props himself against the counter. "The closest people always knew. Moira, for example, is very supportive. I suspect, she wanted to study me, that's why."

Erik tenses on hearing it, but Charles misses it entirely. He must have been joking, realizes Erik post factum.

"— and if I get everything back, I'll put it to good use. Wealth is nothing if it's not spent on a worthy cause."

Charles collects the papers and puts them in the briefcase. What he needs is a distraction. Putting his mind through the information sewers will only intensify his headache. Charles' wandering thoughts dwell now for an instant on his weird trip back from the Mutant Centre. He isn't sure what to make of his sudden presumption that he was followed. While it lasted it seemed genuine, but at the moment Charles doubts whether there was anything at all. He reckons, he should tell Erik anyway, if only to let the memory go.

Erik's reaction goes like this: at first he frowns, then, Charles sees the reproach behind his next words.

"Everything matters, even insignificant things. It's no use talking about it. For now, don't let it vex you. But once you suspect anything or anyone, let me know."

.

VIII

.

Charles, waking up after surgery, had found it hard to reconcile himself to the fact that his telepathy was cut off. Of course, he thought it was temporary at the time. He blamed the drugs. When it didn't return after he was taken off heavy medication, he quickly understood that nothing was going to be the same as it used to be. At times, it was particularly hard, especially on days when he thought he was stuck in a nasty nightmare. Nothing made sense without any apparent reason. Time and again he would be flooded by the sense of profound alienation from his body, or the world would look phony and far away, time itself got distorted.

"It's too early to leavethe hospital, Charles," Kurt told him. "Why, there's hardly anything you should worry about. Let's wait until diagnosis is determined."

His eyes were never still while they were talking. It was something Charles never noticed before.

"I want to go home," he answered then.

His own voice reverberated within the painful emptiness inside his head. Words paled in comparison to the groundless vacuum that they sought to mask. He could scarcely tolerate speaking, let alone listening to Kurt's patronizing voice.

"Too soon," pressed Kurt.

Charles' attention drifted off at that point in their conversation. He elaborately focused on his slow thoughts in order to stave off devastating silence.

Within the week after his visit Charles knew that he had made a mistake.

It appears, he had signed some papers, what he dimly remembers doing in the drug induced haze. He, who never dealt much with solicitors, bankers, judges or promising politicians and from whose social standpoint he didn't really exist, was promptly expurgated.

Perhaps, it was for the best that no one of his so called family friends knew about his mutation. Otherwise, he feared, it could have turned out much, much worse.

.

IX

.

He stares at the ceiling in the grayish light of dawn.

With half an ear he listens to the noise outside that signals the beginning of a new day. He is comfortable here, on the mattress. It is less lumpy than the old bed as he explained Erik and this makes mattress better for his back.

Though he knows his kitchen so well, he looks around. Dimness makes the contours of objects less harsh. If he squints he can pretend that the table is satinwood and the chair is vintage, probably French.

As he exhales, he takes notice of chilliness. It pricks on his face and bare forearm, so he hides his arm under the blanket. It always gets colder early in the morning. Heat can only linger so long.

After some deliberation he gets up and immediately puts on a sweater.

Awkwardly, he ends up wanting to check on Erik. In the wake of his dream he can't help thinking that Erik is just a figment of his disordered imagination. He has his hand on the door to the bedroom, about to push it when Erik calls his name.

"Good morning. I didn't disturb you, did I?" he asks, stepping in.

"Morning, Charles. No, come in," Erik greets him and sits up.

The covers slide off his chest, revealing healing bruises and a red ugly line slashing his upper ribs. Charles comes closer, unthinking, and sits on the edge of the bed. It creaks under his weight.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, better than before. Charles, I have been thinking," tells him Erik somberly. "Remember, I told you about my enemies?"

"Yes, I do."

Erik feels a prick of dull anger all of the sudden. Charles shouldn't be so calm. Then, he looks at him carefully and reconsiders. He is a pale visage of concern, if anything. He is just very still.

"I never stay long in one place, not to mention so densely populated. That's the rule. There are people out there… mutants and even humans you don't want to face head on."

"I understand."

Charles turns to look him in the eye.

"I am useless for you like that," he states, "but, I think, I'm intelligent enough not to get in the way should something happen."

That was an exaggeration of what Erik attempted to convey. He intended to give Charles some instructions to keep him safe.

When Erik opens his mouth to contradict, for he hates to be misunderstood, he is interrupted by the knock on the door.

Charles springs up, but Erik catches his wrist and pulls him back.

"I will take a look. You stay behind me, alright?"

He gets to the door quickly, but not quickly enough. Whoever was there had left. There is a folded piece of paper on the floor, just on the doorstep. Stark white against brown.

Charles bumps into his back. Apparently, he has been peering over his shoulder. His understanding of staying behind is lacking.

"I wonder whether we should just leave it be," says Charles in a low voice.

"And what? Make this creep wail that their bait was wasted? Well, Charles, I must say I like the way you're thinking."

"On the other hand, I wasn't thinking straight. Now I'm interested," Charles pushes past him and bends to pick it up.

Erik expects anything but that.

Charles unfolds the paper and stares.

There is a place and time scratched in the center. They are followed by:

_Dr. Xavier, please, forgive me the vagueness of this message. It's critical that we meet and I promise I only want to help you._

_Sorry if I startled you._

"You almost expect a letter like this to be signed 'Your Well-wisher'," Charles looks the paper up and down and passes it to Erik.

Erik feels like he is the one suddenly blessed with mind reading skills, because he can almost pinpoint the exact moment when Charles makes his decision. He exchanges looks with Charles, who tilts up his chin, with an expression of stubborn confidence Erik has already seen him wearing once or twice. It's weird that he got so attuned to Charles so quickly.

"We should come prior to the time mentioned," Erik concedes. "And where is it exactly?"

"I believe, not far."

Charles smiles gratefully.

.

X

.

While Erik is away hiding his briefcase with all vital documents, to play it safe, he has time to clean up and have a meal. For all his love of tidiness and order, Charles is always reluctant when it comes to house work, be it cleaning or self-nurturing.

It's so convenient that Erik is cooking, thinks Charles, devouring pasta.

Can Erik stay for good?

Such questions are what come out all of the sudden and drag him in quicksand of hypothesizing.

And is it because these times are so tumultuous for him that he is having such thoughts? Everything he believes about reality can turn out to be an error, or, even worse, a lie. He needs to work on restructuring his very experience of other people and relationships they have, and, well, the world in general.

Charles wrestles with the rest of his meal maintaining strict mental silence.

Erik comes back when he is almost ready to go out. He brings in a whiff of crisp autumn air, curiously mixed with a timid scent of concrete and cigarette smoke from the staircase.

"How bad is the cold?"

"Biting, but I consider it refreshing."

"Of course you do," opts to tease him Charles.

Putting on his coat, Charles scrutinizes Erik's worn jacket. Thanks to shaving and scrubbing clean, Erik does look marginally better. One might confuse him with one of these bizarre style disciples, who like their clothes to look older than it actually is.

"Let's go," Charles checks his pockets before locking the door.

A public park in the evening is not the best place for a meeting, unless you are looking for a thrill or just like to meander through dark deserted terrain. Charles is neither, or, perhaps, he is secretly one of these things. In the morning, he tried to explain Erik that the note felt safe, but got only a dubious look and as you say and I'll come anyway in return.

As they walk deeper, the path still illuminated by rare lights, Charles forgets the reasons he mentioned above. Because, this journey through the dark is simply very good. And, yes, to borrow Erik's earlier epithet, refreshing.

Charles looks at the moonless sky, which is the colour of dense oil tonight, and questions himself when was the last time he had just watched the sky. He bumps shoulders with Erik, and though accidental, the motion summons a surge of trepidation. He can tell that Erik turned to look at him, but at the moment Charles can't raise his eyes. He is afraid of what Erik might see in his eyes and what Charles might see in his. Charles blames his poor confused mind. He is not certain what is going on.

"Is there only one reservoir in here?" asks Erik.

"Two. Yes, I definitely recall two."

Charles looks at the water body and notices someone occupying the bench by the willow.

"I think this is our fellow," says Erik as they approach the person from the light side.

The man rises to meet them and Charles tries not to stare, because his mutation is very obvious. Dark-furred tall body can scarcely be hidden underneath the raincoat and a floppy hat. His voice is nothing like you might expect. It's actually a voice of a young man.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Xavier," he offers a hand, large and clawed, and Charles shakes it, notes the softness and warmth of the other's skin.

"Just Charles, please," asks Charles, uncomfortable with the title. "This is my friend, Erik. And you are —"

"My pleasure. Henry McCoy," he hesitated before adding. "We've been corresponding a few years ago."

Science community is a small world, indeed. At the very conference he met Moira for the first time, he had heard about a young promising geneticist, studying mutations. Mutation, which had been a top notch subject only a decade ago, was undergoing the stage of stagnation, primarily shunned by frustrating lack of funding and overpowering social invisibility. Rare enthusiasts, like McCoy, were unfairly treated like out-of-it attention seekers, though they were studying the ever increasing part of population for the benefit of all mankind. Charles lacked courage to speak out loud at the time or address the subject directly, but he contacted McCoy out of academic interest and was totally overcome by the magnitude of the man's work. However, all that doesn't explain the note or his presence in the park at night.

"I remember you. Your work is outstanding," tells him Charles.

Charles gives McCoy time to fidget and, presumably, find the right words. Without looking, he takes Erik's hand and squeezes it lightly to warn Erik not to interrupt.

"I — thank you, Charles," says McCoy at last. "Look here, I wouldn't dare disturb you if I didn't think it necessary. Recently,well, I signed a contract with Western Labs."

Charles thinks back on the subcontractor list and comes back with the same name.

"He has been hired by my, uh, Marko Enterprises," Charles puts Erik into the picture.

"Yes, in a way. You can say so," agrees McCoy slowly. "I was at headquarters only once. Primarily, to see about the presentation of the new prototype. Then, I happened to overhear a conversation. At first, I got confused, I didn't realize that there was someone else in the lab. I recognized Mr. Marko's voice, because he lost his temper. I won't replay it all, obviously. But, you should know, that the bottom line of the conversation was about keeping an eye on you. Mr. Marko was very anxious when your name was mentioned. Though, the other man said that he could handle it, in a malicious way. After that, I couldn't just leave it be. Imagine my concern when I started digging up information and found out that Charles Xavier is actually Dr. Xavier."

"When did it happen?" inquires Erik.

"About two weeks ago. And it was also implied that your movements might be monitored, that's why I was careful not to approach you directly."

"That other man? Do you have any idea?"

Charles watches him shaking his head.

"Have never seen him before. I realize that it's not public knowledge yet, and sorry if I got it wrong, but aren't you a telepath? It concerns you, so you can check my memories," hastily offers McCoy, oblivious to the fact that his statement has just knocked the ground from under Charles' feet.

His breath begins to come very fast. Panic seizes him. There is no reason for McCoy to know.

"H-how," barely gets out Charles, "how do you know?"

"It was an educated guess, please, rest assured, that your secret stays with me. But, I was trying to find out something about your whereabouts to warn you. A friend of mine is very good at finding out anything about people. Forgive me that I keep their identity secret. Again, it was not mentioned anywhere — I read between the lines for the most part. After studying mutation so closely, I sometimes encounter the moments of serendipity. Oh, I said something wrong?" he falters.

"I'm sorry I upset you," repents McCoy sincerely.

"It's not your fault."

Charles gathers up his wits, though he feels tries to shift his focus to McCoy. What this man did was so unexpected, so good, no, so brave of him.

"If you don't have any immediate questions, I need to leave."

He nods, briefly, and touches the edge of his hat. At this point Charles manages:

"Thank you."

Erik and McCoy exchange a handshake and a few parting words and the scientist leaves.

As the distance between them grows, Charles keeps his eyes on him, until his figure is swallowed by the darkness.

.

XI

.

The more Erik considered it, the more likely it seemed that Charles had the right to knowabout him too. He hesitated before pulling Charles into the swamp of his own. On the other hand, Charles has been decent to him. Surely, he is entitled to be informed.

So it happened that after McCoy was gone, Charles was left staring ahead, forgetful of Erik's presence. He looked as though he could collapse on the spot. He was very pale.

For Erik it was difficult to start speaking.

While the silence lingers he mulls over several lines, but deems them unfit. Each approach he can think of doesn't seem right.

"Charles?"

"Give me a moment," asks Charles.

As he starts walking, Erik joins him. He keeps an eye on Charles discreetly, but he doesn't know whether he should cross the line. Truth be told, he doesn't remember what exactly should be said in such situation.

"He never had any pity for me, but can't he spare just ordinary human feeling?" Charles starts, strangled and sullen. "They, I mean Markos, used to be life-long friends with my father, you know. Always invited to dinner parties and such. My father would push me to reign in my abilities; to practice control — he would say. Only, I couldn't quite shut off the world. That's how I would know when my mother was going to have a headache or what Kurt thought of me. He would look at me and I would hear — a nasty little thing or that kid is weird. But after my parents were gone he was so considerate. I wanted to see good in him, I wanted to be comforted, so, I don't know, I must have convinced myself that he really meant well."

"I don't know what to say," Erik confesses, "but if talking helps, we can talk."

"Thanks. Talking to you helps," Charles stops to face him.

Gold cone of light they have stopped in cuts off the darkness of the surrounding world.

"I wouldn't realize it could help so much if I hadn't met you. I feel like…Please, understand that I don't have a clue how to act around you. You know why. I just can't picture what you might be thinking about, what you might want or how you might react. I'm always on the guessing trip, especially if, when I didn't know someone for a long time."

Charles makes a weird snapping gesture with his fingers and Erik somehow catches up.

"I know that normal people don't ask these questions, but we are not exactly normal, so I will try. Erik, will you be my friend?"

"You've already called me one."

Charles cocks his head to the side and absently worries his lower lip. Blood rushes up to his face. He scrambles for a funny or witty reply, but can't find anything intelligent.

"Ah," he draws back, but then he sees that Erik's eyes are glinting with amusement.

"I agree," nods Erik, punctuating the seriousness. "Shall we do the blood oath later? I didn't bring any sterile instruments for occasion."

"Damn, how you could forget," reprimands him Charles, slightly mocking.

He already feels lighter. The sorrow and shock didn't magically evaporate, but they hid under the onslaught of a brighter feeling.

"Charles, I also want to tell you something important."

Judging by his tone, it was something grave. Lord, are they on the killing spree tonight, bombarding him with bad news. What is one more wringing?

"I'm listening," sighs Charles and then apologizes. "Sorry, sorry. I'm not in the best shape emotionally-wise. Tonight is the night of very important conversations, I see."

They resume walking.

"I recalled you too. In the morning, after we first met."

"What do you mean?"

"That even if you hadn't told me who you're, I would have known."

Charles sighs again.

"Alright. Just spill it, Erik."

.

XII

.

After his abilities manifested for the first time, Erik believed, rather naively, that no one would be looking for a connection between an ordinary teenager, nearly squashed by a car, and the way this car had suddenly been pushed back and aside. It collided with the road post, bending it in half. It happened on a quiet street in a small town. A few people rushed to help the driver, whereas one unfamiliar woman started fussing over him, mistaking his sudden fatigue for injury. Erik fought her off and, feeling squeezed dry and unsteady on his legs, barely made it home. Thankfully, it was not far.

The decision to move had belonged to his mother.

Doors in their house were thin.

Lying on the couch, and straining his ears, despite pounding headache, Erik discovered a lot of things. First, that he didn't know his mother — the most soft-spoken soul he has encountered. Who was that woman who claimed, quite harshly, that he would never be safe.

 _What if someone saw?Have you even watched TV? Do you realize what is going on?_ — she raised her voice. To that her father replied that Erik was lucky that he didn't look any different and therefore they could pretend that nothing happened. If Erik was careful, he said, everything would be fine. They argued like that for a while. By the time they emerged from the kitchen, Erik had buried his head under a pillow, desperate for any semblance of quiet.

A different town meant different everything.

And, surprisingly, their life got better, singularly lacking in hardship. His mother had been offered a very good job. Erik had learnt that education didn't seem pointless when you had a definite purpose in life. His thirst for knowledge was overwhelming. Thus, his teachers tended to turn a blind eye to his multiple transgressions, because he was so good at the academic side of it.

Until one day, when he came back home, later than usual, and it was empty.

Not that kind of empty: people have just left and were going to come back pretty soon. It was devastatingly empty of human presence: gone were the clothes from his parents' wardrobe, gone was their car from the garage, even bathroom was swept clean. Erik found himself in the middle of the kitchen. He was shaking. Cutlery was rattling in the cupboards, pipes were twisting and sink was melting, but his couldn't stop. The kitchen smelled sharply of some antiseptic. He blamed his tears on it.

The doorbell was ringing. On and on.

He thought he saw the man coming in. He heard his name called in unfamiliar voice and he did the only thing he wanted to do — he lashed out with every metal object in the vicinity.

Afterwards, his memories of that night were jumbled and distorted.

His head heavy and achy, Erik didn't even comprehend where he was. Lights were too bright. He was lying on some harsh even surface. Also, someone rose to block the light.

What he initially disliked about Shaw was his superior tone, badly masked by an attempt at compassion.

"Hello, Erik. I'm Doctor Shaw," he introduced himself. "You're safe. You are in the hospital, where we help special people. People like you."

Erik was slow to process his words. He was raw. His throat was parched. He wanted this man to shut up.

His dislike notwithstanding, he was listening to Shaw's retelling of what happened. Shaw said he was the member of the organization looking for and protecting gifted kids. Shaw told him that he travelled around the world under various aliases. He mentioned some grid, said he had wanted to contact Erik's family and offer his help if required. He hadn't known that Erik might decide to bring the entire kitchen down. He was very glad that he had been there in time.

What a bunch of bullshit, thought Erik at the time.

It's a pity that rebellious thought was lost, buried under bitter memories of countless arguments with his parents, their threats to leave him, complains that their lives were wasted because of him. Of course, it was complete and utter nonsense. And Shaw's resident telepath hasn't done the best work, making up that scenario, but Erik couldn't form a sober estimate of things. The thought to escape didn't even cross his mind. He was fourteen, poisoned by anger, and he was secretly craving destruction to the point that everything else blinded in comparison.

Now he knows that all necessary emotions were already in place.

He took notice of Charles shaking his head.

"I'm so sorry, but it doesn't quite work like that," Charles mutters dejectedly. "There is almost nothing you can do to fight this kind of violation. It can get distorted as years go by and if a telepath meant it to, or wasn't very skilled. Oh, sorry, so sorry. I shouldn't have interrupted you."

When he turns to face Erik fully, there are tears in his eyes. Charles lifts his hand to touch his cheek where the trail is wet and then stares at his fingers, as though in puzzlement.

"I was so obsessed with myself," he says for some reason, "while you —"

"I was doing bad things, Charles," Erik shrugs. "They, Shaw's Brotherhood, have established first system of mutant categorizing. Top secret. I soon became Shaw's right hand man, so I had excess to almost all files. Yours was all but empty, full of gaps as far as I remember. That was, uh, that is the primary task of the Inner Ring, — to collect data, to monitor, and to recruit, if possible. The last part, recruiting, is very creative. However, in some cases there is no additional staging. Mutants are easy to turn. They are either victims of prejudice or easy to convince fools or, well, crazies. Though, Shaw dislikes the latter."

Charles looks at him inquisitively.

"Birds of a feather rivalry," jokes Erik darkly. "As for myself, Charles, don't think that I'm pulling a victim card. It wasn't all due to brainwashing as you might assume. No, I don't believe so. I felt genuinely righteous in my belief that I was doing the right thing."

"Goodness, Erik! But, I think, it's not all they want."

"Precisely. There is an underground war going on and because it's a partisan war for now, no one gives a damn. Notable people disappear; some politicians get blackmailed; a bit of a nudge in the right direction here and there. And brute force when necessary. But we've been trying to keep operations under the radar until time comes. I thought it was the only way for our kind to survive. To clear up the road for mutants. There were talks about all mutant country, but, as I see, they were just talks."

"The entire country?" Charles echoes dreamily. "I'm striving to imagine, though," his breath hitches, "without my powers, I wouldn't be welcome anyway. Am I right?"

"Yes," confirms Erik mercilessly. "In Shaw's paradise, there is no place for losers of the genetic lottery. There are useless mutants. They were called trash: no useful powers, just ugly, or, sometimes, quirky appearances. On the other hand, I've never spoken to any of Shaw's human henchmen, nor seen all of them. I only know that they are plenty and very well-trained. I can assume they are in it for money. Mutants kept to themselves, especially when it came to their abilities. Strengths, weaknesses should be private. The usual."

Charles nods as he pushes off a baluster railing, he has been leaning on.

A pavilion is next to the park exit, which is closed at night, so they have all privacy they want. Erik is glad they are in a secluded place, where they can rest, because he didn't mean to tell that much.

"It is too dreadful to comprehend, but, Erik, I want to thank you. I appreciate your trust," Charles says with feeling.

Heart-wringing words he says write themselves on his face.

It slowly dawns on Erik how tightly he bound Charles to him. He did that for a comfort that there would be no misunderstanding between them. Because he didn't resist his disposition to tell Charles things, Charles is involved. No, he firmly stops the treacherous thought from expanding. He had got Charles involved when they crossed paths by accident. What he has just given him is different. It is a key to awareness.

.

XIII

.

Charles spends all of the following morning and afternoon prone in bed and full-time inert. Back pain reminded of itself when he picked up his tool box. Something went terribly wrong with that simple motion and now he is just lying there, neck twisted left to see Erik properly and part of his face pressed into the flattened pillow, positively numb. Not without Erik's help he had taken his medicine earlier in the day, so that the ache has been dulled. That deeply disgruntled him. His body isn't trustworthy anymore. And though he is always very careful, he can't help it. It happens. It will be happening. Because obtaining that injury meant forever walking on thin ice.

"Are you comfortable?"

"I think, I need to switch to supine," he murmurs weakly.

By joining efforts, with Erik supporting his back, they manage it. Charles pulls the quilt to his chest and smoothers the creasing, while thinking of the question which was lurking somewhere in his head all this time. Erik never mentioned what had really happened to his parents, and though Charles suspected, how he could not, he hesitated before asking. He stares intently at his hands, not trusting himself to open his mouth.

"Erik? Can I bother you to make me a cup of tea?"

It should serve as a passable distraction.

"Of course," Erik stands up eagerly. "You haven't eaten anything —"

"Not now. I can't eat a thing," Charles rasps.

His lips appear to be powdered with glass dust.

Erik leaves the door open a fraction, so Charles can listen to him domineering his kitchen. One thing is evident, ponders Charles. Erik is uncomfortable, though he tries to hide it. Looking after someone is a new experience for him. Charles only hopes that he doesn't make Erik too uncomfortable. His post-painkiller head is full of repetitive thoughts with no merit. He can't but wonder whether their relationship would be different had he met Erik earlier. He keeps thinking back to Erik's past. Thoughts grow more monotonous, darker. The only active tool at his disposal is his imagination. It plays out something akin to horrendous movie in his mind, featuring empty houses with grotesque metal furniture, the woman from that poster in the Mutant Center singing, Charles sees himself sorting out a jig-saw text puzzle, which he can't figure out, because all words are unfamiliar.

He jolts awake from the semi-dream late in the afternoon and immediately registers sickly stickiness of his undershirt. Goodness but he is drenched — he must have been feverish at some point during his slumber. Disgusted, he cringes.

After that, ready to face the world, Charles has to blink several times until his sight clears. The ache is bearable, he decides. It is there, but it is subdued. He tests it as he stretches his legs a tiny bit, carefully watching out for sharp pain, which doesn't come.

Erik is the very picture of equilibrium. He is reading a thick paperback in a chair by his bed, with Charles' spare blanket over his shoulders. He glances up to meet his eyes and arches an eyebrow.

"You've been talking about interesting stuff in your sleep."

"Nothing embarrassing, I dare hope," Charles tries on a crooked smile.

"It depends on your definition of embarrassing," says Erik flatly.

Charles doesn't have time to get properly mortified, because Erik breaks into a grin.

"Oh, come on," groans Charles. "No one is a good sport just after they wake up."

He rubs his face with his hands to make blood flowing. Charles finds out that the area around his eyes is tender and a touch puffy. The dryness of his mouth reminds him about the tea he didn't wait up for.

To Erik he looks less ashen. A bit of colour is back to his lips.

"You're… we're out of food," Erik tells him when he deems Charles aware enough.

"Okay. Let's fix it up."

Erik sees how Charles visibly braces himself. He mutely shakes his head when Erik reaches out to help. After discarding the quilt, he shifts his weight on one elbow and cautiously lowers his feet onto the floor and consequently gets out of bed. When he draws himself straight, strained lines around his mouth relax and he exhales in relief.

"I need to tidy up. Then, we will go."

"Are you sure you don't need any help?"

"No. No need. I'm almost as good as new," Charles laughs, throatily, and shakes his head again.

He's got the glorious case of tangled hair, granting him a delirious, yet innocuous look.

Charles claps him on the shoulder in silent thanks as he turns to leave the room. Something warm and pleasant wells up in Erik's chest at Charles' touch. It ripples, pervasive and omnipresent. Erik gets startled. He forces himself back into normal calm state, though a sensation is one of a stubborn, lingering kind.

.

XIV

.

Almost everyone is bundled up.

Charles thought that Erik in a new bottle-green parka, with hood pulled over his eyes, should blend in. Instead, he even comes across as menacing. Charles notices that people take one glance at him and immediately lower their eyes, as though wary of attracting his attention. He is pushing their trolley, while Charles is tagging behind.

He recalls that he promised Moira to stay in touch every few days, that's why he dials her number for a brief verification that everything is okay.

"It's a burner anyway, so don't worry," Charles tells her."Is it a good time?"

"Yeah. Just getting ready to leave the labs."

"Everything's alright?"

"Fine. There is going to be a board meeting. On Friday, most likely," Moira is shuffling through some papers.

He hears the characteristic rustling in the background.

"Are you sure you don't want another lawyer?"

"I'm pretty sure I can't afford them. Whoever you are talking about."

More paper shuffling follows.

Charles pictures her pressing the phone between her ear and shoulder. She has to do that to free her hands, but her voice gets harsher. He has a mental image at the ready — her silky dark hair swept to one side and she probably has a look of quiet concentration on her face.

"Anything else?"

"No, nothing major. My department is hushed as usual."

She clears her throat and Charles gets ready for an uncomfortable question if Moira is true to herself.

"I wanted to tell you in the café, but I couldn't gather up enough courage," she starts, slightly awkwardly.

Charles stops on the spot.

"I'm getting engaged. It's kind of abrupt, I know."

"Yes, kind of. You used to say that marriage is not for you," Charles says, digesting the news. "Congratulations, then! You deserve to be happy."

As he is saying it, he realizes, as though from a distance, that the longing is gone, his voice is calm and he doesn't even fake it. He grabs his phone tighter. Her revelation doesn't bother him. The absence of any feeling is a shock in itself.

"Thank you. You are always so sweet," she pauses. "I love you, I really do, but that's not the right kind —"

"Moira, it's fine, honestly," he laughs lightly and motions Erik to go on. "I mean it."

He can understand now what she meant back then. It was strange that he couldn't see that a year ago. He suddenly feels light-hearted. It indicates how much of a burden he was carrying all this time.

"Oh, well," she drawls.

Moira doesn't sound reassured, he believes, but, the truth is, reassuring her is not in a realm of phone conversation.

"I have to go. I intended it to be a very brief call. Hope to see you soon, though."

"Likewise. Take care."

"You too."

Charles looks down at a blank screen and thinks that is was fairly simple. He didn't expect it to be that simple.

As though burnt, he snaps his eyes up and sees Erik.

Erik is waiting for him at the intersection, making people step around him and jostle each other and their trolleys.

"I'm sorry. Unexpected news," he explains when he comes closer.

"The good kind?"

"Yes, I suppose good."

The sky is already dark blue when they step outside.

The moon is now a waning crescent moon. A few stars twinkle down at them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik sees that Charles hunches up against frosty chill and then pulls up his collar. A temperature drop is especially perceptible when you come out of the warmth. Erik inhales cool air with reverence. It charges him with energy. He, who has no habits whatsoever, especially domestic ones, suddenly finds something as mundane as shopping reassuringly unexciting. A non-conformist in him protests as soon as Erik registers that thought.

That's because he is living in Charles' world, following Charles' routine and rules.

As they walk together up the street, it gets darker. Night comes down savagely.

"You're a life saviour. I'm sorry again," Charles breathes out a tiny white cloud, drawing level with him.

He is probably referring to the fact that Erik is carrying all bags by himself.

Erik just grunts noncommittally in reply.

They step on the road bridge. Speeding on-coming headlines pierce through his retinas. Sidewalk is too narrow for both of them and bags, so Charles speeds up and takes over. Erik squints at his back. Thankfully, some shield for his eyes.

There is someone coming towards them.

Erik can't see them properly. He just knows that because the shadow is getting bigger. His senses are tingling oddly, but as Erik draws a breath to call out for Charles, everything shifts.

He can't quite see what exactly is going on.

But then, Charles doubles over and falls down to his knees. The man grabs him by his hair, pulls his head back and smashes it against railing. It happens soundlessly. And very fast. Erikjust drops his bags. He reacts a fraction too late.

When he lashes out using railings to pierce the stranger, they ripple off him, as though encountering invisible body armor, and Erik breaks into cold sweat, because he doesn't even need to see that face.

Shaw, with his trademark helmet on, steps over fallen Charles and stretches his arms open in a sick parody of a hug.

Erik backs away from him as he approaches. He feels himself trembling with hate and rage. His fear doesn't have a chance to manifest fully, shaded by these strong emotions.

Shaw notices his maneuver and stops. His voice has a peculiar quality: it is very penetrating and he can easily make himself heard if he wants to.

"Erik, I see, nothing changed. You still can't pull yourself up together in time. And I thought, I hoped, you could learn during your little wayfaring."

Erik darts a quick look back and sees another Shaw leaning on the railing.

Unless Shaw has a twin… Mystique has the gall to sneer at him. So, Charles was right. Someone was snooping around, indeed. Between her and Shaw she is obviously nobody. Erik could rip her apart and didn't even break a sweat, but he has to think of Charles. And to think of Charles, he has to stall for time.

Noisy cars and trucks continue to blast past them.

Someone might see something. Shaw was never that careless before. Something has changed and Erik doesn't know what.

"To tell the truth," Shaw chuckles fondly, "I missed you, Erik. In spite of your transgressions and vile temper, your viability is what makes you truly special. That scum you've killed — I'm not even really mad. Let's say that you have acted on behalf of natural selection."

Erik speaks up sternly.

"Save your breath."

"Now, this is what I was talking about. Some vile temper."

Erik had seen this show played over and over again. To say that he was sick and tired will be a grave underestimation. Just as that thought crosses his mind, Shaw folds his arms. To someone who doesn't know him he might resemble a disgruntled headmaster. Erik knew from hard-won experience that that was a vital part of pretense. He was taunting any potential attacker, as though saying: here I'm standing defenseless. It happened especially often, when Shaw was pointedly drinking champagne or smoking. My hands are where you can see them — says his posture. Don't you want to try? Erik could get full marks in Shaw subject in case one existed. He had schooled himself in mood swings, power games and psychological warfare in the climate of constant fear and uncertainly. Unfortunately, the question how to kill Shaw, physically, was still open.

"You will come back, Erik. You have nowhere else to go," says Shaw and jerks his head back. "Your friend over there? How exactly he can be useful? I know that he's been hiding all his life, but an oddity here and there and you track them, those poor delusional souls, thinking they can pretend to be like everyone else. So, what can he do? Precognition? No, I don't think so."

Shaw turns his head a fraction to look at Charles, slumped on the sidewalk, and tuts, scoffing.

"He clearly didn't see that coming."

As fear in him replaces rage, Erik stands perfectly still. This never happened — he would be convulsed with anger, but reigning in his temper, intent on proving that he is a master of his mind and heart.

"Let's keep trying, though. Retrocognition? I see you're surprised, but it's possible."

Erik tries, so desperately tries not to move a muscle, not to bat an eyelid.

"An empath? No? Oh, you don't say. One more telepath? These are not as rare, although always expedient."

"No, he's got no gift. None," grounds out Erik, realizing that he had already lost, "he really can't do a thing."

"I'm not convinced. Since when do you fancy humans, Erik? That's not your usual modus operandi."

Shaw's words summon a surge of hot shame. Embarrassment thickens his throat. There won't be any other opportunity. What the hell was he waiting for?

His senses of danger scream at him when Erik releases hold on his powers. He can feel the bloody bridge, he can feel the cars and he does what he has almost done when he was at Charles' place — he lets it go. The bridge groans and the cars suddenly stop, glued to road. Erik raises his hand and the entire railing rises upon his call. People start screaming, getting out of cars, so Erik grasps two closest vehicles and hurls them at Shaw.

Energy blast cuts through the middle of the bridge, sending the cars and chunks of debris flying back.

Erik leaps over the edge, bared of railing, with a crazy idea in mind. He hovers above the motorway, stretches his arms up, as though to support the mass of steel and concrete, and pushes. The structure splits in half when Erik starts gritting his teeth. He quickly breaks his flight and lands on top of some lorry, pins it to the ground and stalls the split, turning it into slow slide contrary to abrupt crash. Sweat beads up on his temples from strain. When he catches unconscious Charles right in his arms, he can't really believe that his stunt has worked so nicely.

.

XV

.

Leaving the chaos of sirens and screams behind, Erik hits the gas pedal hard. In the headlights of his hijacked car there are two police cars zipping past, hurrying to the fallen bridge. For their sake, they should slow down, Shaw might still be there, Erik thinks grimly. With heavy heart, he draws together his intention and determination, which were badly shriveled as he heard the sound of Shaw's voice. The worst part is — Erik knows now that he can't run from Shaw forever. What was he thinking? Erik doesn't need to grab the wheel so tight, but he appreciates to have something he can hold on to. A brief, worried glance at Charles, fastened to the front seat by his side, confirms that a muffled noise is really Charles waking up. Left side of his face is bloody and the skin peeking out of gore is deathly pale. His eyes are half-lidded and lifeless. He turns to Erik with a low groan.

"Erik," he is barely moving his lips, "Erik, what is going on?"

Erik can't force himself to give answers expected of him.

"A lot," he sneers, before he reminds himself that nothing is Charles' fault, and feels disgusted with himself.

Charles starts struggling with a seat belt, tugging at it weakly, until Erik realizes what he wants and helps him, tugging the fastening out with his powers.

Erik is totally unprepared for Charles to make a fierce and sudden cut at him with a knife, which appeared out of nowhere. The blow is fast and powerful. Only the quickness of Erik's reaction saves him from having his throat slashed open. The blade slices through his parka, his sweater and bites into his upper chest, living sharp burning pain in its wake. The expression on Charles' face is impassive. As he moves forward for another strike, his eyes flash to yellow and Erik slams on the breaks with a loud curse and swings the car onto a wayside.

He actually has the presence of mind to make sure that the seat belt winds itself around Mystique's neck and even feels a prick of dark satisfaction when the insides of car start crashing life out of her. Erik kicks out a door hastily and gets out.

However, when he turns around on his heels, Mystique is gone. As well as windshield glass.

So far, so good.

Just fantastic.

Wind is racing across the road. Tall, thin trees on the either side of road are stretching their hungry limbs upwards. They are bending and moaning lowly with the wind. Erik stares at the dark landscape, but flicking headlights melt into shadows. He can't see anything or anyone.

Wind bites into his bared neck and scratches his face.

Knowing he doesn't have time to spare, Erik gives up on chasing Mystique. Knowing that she will come back, he makes a firm decision to kill her later.

Erik looks up at the moon and sees it swallowed by a black cloud. The sky provides poor guidance. It is but a black mirror of his shallow thoughts.

Why is he even considering going back? His shoulders sag in defeat.

A moment of weakness.

If he does, he will die. This is Shaw, not some henchman Erik could hope to deal with. Charles was, most likely, gone. In all senses this mean word has. Erik briefly thinks back to the first time he saw Charles — a pale visage of a scared stranger.

It's justified that Erik isn't so sure now who saved who back then.

He darts a glance back in the direction he's come from and begins walking. The weight in his chest is leaden and he feels as though he has swallowed a mouthful of vile poison. As if it has already corrupted his blood, malicious and deadly, piercing every cell in his body, and he is nothing but a moving corpse, just waiting for his time to run out. He doesn't know what exactly he hopes to achieve. From the murky depth of his mindscape emerges an idea. Like a promise of salvation. Death for him and for Shaw, and for everyone who will stand in his way. As the awareness of choice settles down, he grows calmer. Gone are his worries how to hide and where to go afterwards.

Having a sole goal, he dispassionately calculates his chances. Chill does one good thing — it cools him down a bit.

He has no money, no connections, and, most importantly, no idea where to start from.

Or does he? Erik knows only one person, but, he decides, this is enough. The question is how to find out where McCoy lives and preferably quickly. Erik has all reasons to believe that Charles is not in one of the ambulances swarming around that bridge.

.

XVI

.

He moans and tries to bring his hand to his thrumming head, but discovers that he can't. His hands are fastened together behind his back. To say that he is raw and aching all over is not enough to describe the steady crushing waves of agony. It seems that he's been crying for a while now: his eyelashes are heavy with wetness and hot tears keep flowing down his cheeks. It's his back again. This time pain is simply drilling in nonstop. Charles doesn't have any adjectives for that.

His nose is too stuffy because of crying. His lips are unpleasantly stuck together. As if glued. So it takes a conscious effort to open his mouth and take in some air.

Soon after he tastes his own tears and, goodness, why tie him to a chair.

The sodding chair.

There is an expensive olive carpet on the floor under his feet. Those intricate abstract patterns seem to come in and out of focus. They hypnotize him into nausea.

A groan works its way out of his throat, scrubbed with wire if his senses are not lying.

There is a battle going on inside his woozy head, in a place where the last of clear thoughts remain. Intellectually, he knows very well, that he should stay logical and sensible, but he discovers that he can't help plummeting into sticky despair.

As he hears a sudden movement behind him, he panics terribly. He tries to crane his head to have a look, but a spasm shoots through his neck and a side of his head and his vision starts swimming.

Someone grabs his hand and twists it at the elbow. Charles can't comprehend what for until he feels a prick of a needle going in. I hope it is sterile — he thinks absently.

"Please, untie me," he begs, rasps, "I can't go on like —"

"You'd better shut up," interrupts him a heavily accented voice.

His senses switch to dull mode. Charles realizes that this is probably the effect of drug when he stops feeling his limbs. His body turns to solid stone, but his head falls limply to one they are, they do know their way around drugs, he thinks dazedly, — affecting motor skills is a step number one. His knowledge of anesthetics and mind-altering substances is well, good, but knowing doesn't matter much when you are no longer in control. He can't even open his eyes, and this should be scary, but pain has retreated as well, and under these circumstances inability to feel comes as a blessing.

However, the ponding in his head intensifies.

Then, some time passes and he opens his eyes to find out that the carpet has turned into soft moss. Flowers are raising their glorious heads, glowing with deep golden light, swaying lightly to a popular melody. They are everywhere he looks. And they are leaning towards him, gentle and fragrant. It is magical.

His heart is beating in tune with that simple melody. Fast, faster, and faster until it almost stops and plummets down, full with blood and making him dizzy. He is afraid it could burst its' way through his chest, so inflated it feels.

Meanwhile, glowing landscape disappears.

A picture sways, then gets blurry and here he is — in a dense foggy forest, unable to blink. His muscles are painfully stiff.

He might have heard that voice again and his perception might have gone into a temporary overdrive one more time. It might not have happened.

"Maybe yes… maybe no. I don't know anymore," he tries to wet his lips with his tongue, and discovers that he has been talking for a while.

Echo of nonsense words wrestles against a cage of his mind.

What is it, but some meager cage, he ponders philosophically.

He is very amused with himself. The bubbly feeling suddenly flooding him reminds Charles of champagne, all sparks and tingling, and therefore of drinking with Moira, then with Erik. Erik is such a joy. He is a barrel of laughs.

Involuntary, his lips stretch into a wide smile.

.

XVII

.

His knocking on the door is persistent, though not very loud. After quite a while, the drapes on the kitchen window move a fraction and Erik stops knocking.

Fluffy McCoy opens the door just a bit and measures Erik up and down through the gap.

"How did you find me?" he groans.

His bulk looks a little funny ina soft white bathrobe and he is also wearing glasses.

"You're fairly easy to spot."

McCoy growls and pulls to close the door. Erik is holding the handle with his powers.

"Relax. Sorry, sorry."

He huffs and curses his inability to ask for help. Plain and simple it should be, but for him it's quite a challenge.

"I looked you up on the web. Don't you want to let me in before your neighbors wake up?"

McCoy resists his tug, therefore the door stays in place.

"I don't know what kind of welcome you were expecting. I've just watched the news. You are that terrorist everyone is looking for."

"Oh, please, that's to be expected. You don't believe them, do you?"

"But that bridge didn't destroy itself. Am I right?"

Erik stops to think for a moment. It was unprecedented of Shaw to pick such open public space for confronting him. It can mean only one thing. He outed Erik. That's exactly what he did.

"Okay. McCoy, think. You are supposed to be smart. They were so lucky to get a clear shot of my face, or me using my powers," ventures Erik briskly. "Perfectly caught on film. Maybe, let me guess, a close up?"

McCoy grunts, but relaxes his hold on the door.

"A significant part of me hoped it was all a hoax," he tells Erik as he courteously offers him to hang his parka on the coat hanger by the mirror.

"You're injured," McCoy states, looking pointedly at his chest.

"Don't worry. I won't be dripping blood on your furniture. I just need your help me locate the man responsible for this mess and I'm out of your hair."

"Follow me."

McCoy leads him to the basement, where the state of art equipment is lining the walls, bathed in dull white light. There are some devices Erik doesn't have any names for. Computers are familiar, though.

Erik perches on the edge of the nearest desk and rubs at his eyes. Annoying gritty feeling in them eases up just a little.

Then he starts his story without any preamble. He skips the personal details but outlines Shaw, the Brotherhood, all shady business of public and political orchestration and mentions training camps.

"And you claim that this is not just some conspiracy theory about mutants secretly plotting to infiltrate all governments in the world?"

"Not all, obviously. Only the crucial ones."

"Frankly, Erik? Suppose you're telling the truth. It certainly seems, well, it coincides with something I've been suspecting for a while. Still, I don't understand what you want me to do," says McCoy, looking up at him with a turbulent expression on his blue face.

There is a glint of fear in his eyes. Erik has learned to recognize it ages ago. Yet, he hasn't said an outright no and therefore Erik considers his statement a reluctant yes.

"I need a number of the hospital victims were admitted to. You or I, probably you… Someone must call and inquire about Charles?"

"He was there? With you? What happened —"

"He was hurt. After, I— I have no idea. We were separated. I think…"

Erik's ability to choose proper English words wavers, a sign of how much he extorted himself despite his best efforts. He collects his wits after a pause and continues with more emotion than intended.

"Knowing Shaw, I can't really hope for the best case scenario. Shaw had been obviously planning it beforehand."

"Christ," mutters McCoy and takes off his glasses and carefully folds them.

Under Erik's scrutinizing gaze he succumbs to an impulse to hide as he covers his face with his impressively large hands, giving Erik all evidence of his distress.

Erik can tell that there is an internal fight going on. McCoy is probably accustomed to a mundane monotony of time. It was a wonder that an individual of his temper might risk disrupting a steady stream of life for the sake of some stranger. But he already did that and more for Charles.

"You should go upstairs and take care of yourself," finally mutters McCoy. "Bathroom is the second door on your left. If you recall any clues, uh, anything like aliases, special preferences, which might turn out helpful, please, tell me immediately. It has been only five hours. That man might still be in the city."

.

XVIII

.

Charles watches himself through someone else's eyes. It is not uncommon for him as it was, is… What is the right tense form? Charles decides to settle with present for now. Yes, it's not that big a surprise. It is a part of his gift to get reigns over someone's senses or just observe from within.

A man, his name escapes Charles for now, is glowering him down with a tiny bit of unease, but predominantly distaste, as if Charles slumped on a chair is a nasty bug in need of stamping on and crushing with a heel of his shoe. As he turns to look at the plethora of city lights below, Charles feels the stiffness of the man's shoulder like his own and knows that a barely healed, recently newly infected injury is hiding there, under the coarse fabric of his smart suit. Together, they think back to a prognosis that the shoulder will always stay weak and experience a surge of hatred aimed at a person Charles recognizes — Erik. He pictures Erik in a way very different from what Charles is used to. The brightest image in his mind is that of Erik wearing his hair short and clad in a black military gear with no insignia. His face a contemptuous mask.

Something about that recollection makes the man trot to the wide oak doors and push them open. A corridor quickly ends in a flight of stairs, belonging to the most frivolously opulent apartment Charles has ever seen.

There, on a white leather couch, sits a thin, middle-aged man, wearing a strange fitted helmet. A black-haired girl is reclining in an armchair next to a fake fireplace. Charles and the man meet her dark questioning eyes and through him Charles feels a prick of sudden apprehension, almost suppressed jealousy and want.

"Janos?"

The man snaps his pinched face up from reading through some folder.

"You'd better have a good reason for disobeying the order. Or, correct me if I'm wrong, someone is watching the telepath instead of you."

"He is completely out of it," says Janos tersely, afraid of Shaw, and trying to reign in a faint quiver in his voice.

"Is that so?"

"The substance, I mean d-drugs," he stutters and berates himself for that, but speaking out is not his forte. He thinks that others were dead scared, that there was a man who pissed himself and that was disgusting, but that was a true testament of one's fear. Like screaming or, say, begging.

"There is something wrong with this one. Fuck, he is just spluttering nonsense and, uh, giggling."

"That's interesting. Hm, you can't expect all people to have similar reactions. Though, rest assured, it was specifically designed by a colleague of mine to hamper telepathic abilities."

And then was used to drive the rest of folk mad or suicidal, adds Janos idly, but doesn't voice it. Part of him is morbidly fascinated by an idea of disassembling one's mind and rebuilding it upon a new foundation. His thoughts are tinted with perverse guilt and excitement at wielding such power over others.

"Would you be so kind, my dear?"

Shaw raises an eyebrow and the girl stands up, alert.

She seems to understand what is implied even though nothing else was said, as she takes the stairs and disappears around a corner.

"This, all this…"

Shaw places the folder on the low glass table and Charles-Janos notices neat stocks of papers covering its' surface. Shaw stretches his hand over the side of the couch and picks up a briefcase. The one Charles could recognize out of dozens: a zigzag scar on mahogany surface where he accidentally scratched it with a sharper than necessary key tip, wavy wrinkles on both sides of a well-polished from use brass buckle. Charles knows how smooth is old quality leather to touch, knows that the inside lining is wearing thin with time. He can point out without looking the spots where vintage pattern grew incredibly pale.

It can't be true, but this is his briefcase, presumably secured by Erik. And these are months and months of hard work and waiting lying spread on the table.

"Not worth the hassle, from my viewpoint," surmises Shaw, putting everything back in the briefcase.

Charles gets an impression that he doesn't really need any conversation partner and uncompanionable Janos is a perfect sounding board for his opinions.

"I believe I have enough resources of my own to make Marko more convincible. This Xavier heir, on the other hand, will only complicate an already fool-proof affair. Besides, he will hardly need it anyway."

Shaw offers the briefcase to Janos, saying in a tone that demands full and undivided attention.

"I don't want to dust the furniture here by accident. Take it down and make sure that every single piece of paper is burnt to a crisp. Clear?"

Janos nods and takes it.

Charles, cut straight to the bone, can't even make himself shut his eyes as his hopes literally turn to ashes.

.

XIX

.

Sleep is not in the cards tonight. Exactly like he feared, Charles wasn't admitted to any hospital among other victims. That's was all progress they had so far.

While waiting for McCoy to sort, legally and not, through local police database, hotel registers and his mysterious sources, Erik sags right onto sofa in the living room, which is stocked with piles of books and journals. Some are making a good stand for a lamp, some are lining shelves, but some are peeking out of open cardboard boxes by the sofa. Out of all things Erik could be doing, he is reading Charles' articles he was provided with by McCoy. He feels like a difficult child, the one which is often given something to play with or entertained by all weary relatives for the sake of putting off a calamityhe might definitely be a cause of when left unattended.

All of articles date back three or two years. After that — nothing. And though some are written in what appears an alien language, for subjects and terminology say nothing to Erik, others are more comprehensible. They are popular science in an international journal he's never heard about and they are good. Charles' apt way of transforming hardcore gibberish into comprehensible texts is an admirable talent.

Thinking of Charles and how little he knows about him, of his work, is a special kind of torture Erik has willingly subjected himself to. It's somehow better and at the same time worse than watching his own face staring from the TV screen and being promised terrorism charges for a senseless and barbaric act of violence. The only thing which amused Erik, in a grim way, were speculations about his powers. Some mutant expert credited him with a "telekinesis of disastrous proportions". He was labeled the evil manifestation of earth, air and fire elements by an esoteric crazy. Also there was a quasi-scientific hypothesis that Erik was able to manipulate gravity with a commentary by an acclaimed physics professor, conveniently awake around midnight.

It was about four in the morning when McCoy emerged from his basement.

Erik quickly gets up from the sofa with a feeling of doom when the door creaks and McCoy steps in.

"There is a Schmidt, the casino owner from Frankfurt, who stopped at the Regent Hotel. Registered alone. Another Schmidt is a vice-president of Dexter Inc., here for a symposium."

"No, never heard of any," says Erik with conviction. "Nothing rings a bell."

"Also, well, a penthouse on Seven Hills, purchased by someone named Schmidt a fortnight ago. Rumored a big business investor, but I couldn't trace his accounts and his profile is wiped up so carefully… Too carefully, in my opinion."

"The last one. What else did you find out about him?"

"The overall vagueness also made me suspicious, so I checked, but he came out clean. Arrived three days ago with family in tow. Seems like he is planning to settle down here for a while."

"What family?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. A wife, young enough to be his daughter, a son from the previous marriage. That's it. Unfortunately, no pictures of quality anywhere close to decent."

Nothing out of the ordinary. Right? In his habits, Shaw is a living personification of method, order and plenty of pretenses, so he holds in most decided contempt any sign of inferiority which might throw a shade on him. Also, he is a sucker for classics, which can't be said about all people on his team.

"I'm sorry, Erik," starts McCoy, but Erik interrupts him.

"One last request, please. Try his wife. Can you run a background check on her?"

.

XX

.

There he is, a dark silhouette outlined by paling city glow, like a photograph processed with daguerreotype filter. He seems so dark to Charles' sore and slow eyes, as though his darkness is sucking all colours from the room. Though, Shaw is not even wearing a black suit. As he turns to the corner table to pour himself a drink, Charles realizes that his attire is more dark grey than black. A noble shade and fit.

"You drink neat gin?"

Shaw shakes his head slowly.

"I'm glad to have more tight-lipped people around, but when I ask a question, I hope to hear an answer."

The air in the room is still.

Half of Charles is worried, but the other one, an altered one, isn't. Charles knows that he'll be in a lot of pain. He already feels it coming back, taking roots in his lower back, in his head; teeny tendrils of it weave around his shoulders and wrists. He has a vague idea how much it is going to hurt and at this point he can't even care. Which is odd, indeed, given everything Erik told him about this man and what Charles grasped from Janos. The strangest feeling is the ampleness of his mind. His mind, which is truly alive, yet fragile and delicate. It is pure, divine delight to feel it expanding again and it may mean that he has a solid chance to get out in one piece. But his awareness warns him that stranded in the middle of a waking city, without proper shielding, he might not fare that well. He is already losing his grip on it. There is not much energy left to fight.

Shaw is coming closer, dangerously determined, and Charles snaps back to reality.

"I wonder," he muses aloud and though his voice is weak, it is rather steady.

"What?" snaps Shaw, surprised.

"I wonder when you're going to realize how badly you've miscalculated."

.

XXI

.

He lands on the rooftop just before sunrise, when the shadows are hiding and road lights are about to be switched off. He travelled here as fast as he could, alone, though McCoy, a surprise, offered him a ride.

Erik strides to the roof door and tears it down its' hinges. It falls inside with a bang.

He is not here to be discreet.

In the room below, Charles tastes blood in his mouth from the slap which busted his lips and burned a hard imprint into his skin. He finds himself closing his eyes, listening to faint footsteps approaching the door.

"Oh, sorry to interrupt."

Angel looks at Shaw with a sweetly nervous, doe-eyed expression she and Charles know is to his liking. He doesn't need to glance up to know that Shaw has bought it. As his control wavers momentarily, her face grows slack, but Charles grits his teeth and she gives Shaw an anxious smile instead.

"What is it, pet?"

The fact that he is not ripping her head off means that she is allowed to speak.

"There is a man in the lobby, asking for you. Told me his name was —"

A loud yell hits the air. It is followed by dull screeching and roaring Charles fails to place. No human should be able to make such awful sounds.

Now, he thinks, and Angel takes a swing at distracted Shaw. Her hand grabs the edge of his helmet, lifting it up a tiny fraction, as another crashing sound comes from the hall. It would be an instant before Charles seized control of Shaw. It won't.

Shaw strikes Angel across her face, so that her head snaps to the side and she crumbles down at his feet.

Charles reels back from a flash of shared pain and starts screaming.

The door crushes under onslaught of Erik's attack as he is using railing and pipes in the walls to do as much dirty work for him as possible. Courtesy of Riptide, he's got slammed into a wall and was therefore stupefied for a brief moment, but in the end Shaw's lackey got what he deserved. As did his bodyguards.

Upon bursting through the door he hears a man screaming in pain and he instinctively looks in that direction.

It is Charles. There's no doubt.

"Ah, Erik! You found me?"

In the center of the large, almost empty room, facing him stands Shaw.

Angel is sprawled at his feet and bleeding.

Erik drops everything. He pauses on the threshold, taking the scene in. His eyes, unexpectedly, are drawn to Charles rather than Shaw. If anything, the sight of Charles tied to a chair, with his head hanging limply and blood dripping from his mouth on his blue jumper, wraps Erik's head in a kind of purple cloth, which renders him partially blind and deaf. He thinks he's fallen into a shock-induced stupor.

Shaw breaks him out of it when he repeats his name once more. Erik quickly looks up.

In all fairness, he doesn't have any idea what to do with Charles, seeing that he arrived here with suicidal intentions in mind. He can't decide whether to try breaking Charles free at first or whether to ambush Shaw and hope that everything somehow works out for Charles. When he is just about to make up his mind he hears a tentative, thread-like voice.

_The helmet, Erik… Take his helmet._

"What were you playing at?" he asks Shaw roughly to cover his startled shudder. "Why frame me?"

"I didn't expect you to come. As for your repetitive questions, you belong on my side, Erik. Now that humans know what you can do, how easily you can kill, you don't really have a choice, do you?"

Although Erik is not looking at Charles now, he feels his presence clearly. Not fond of telepaths messing around in his head, he has an almost physical reaction. Revulsion. Yes, he feels nauseated. Yet, with incredible effort he forces himself to relax and not push Charles away. He doesn't understand what happened though. Because he could have sworn that Charles was telling the truth. He had to be powerless before. Had to be.

"But, enough talking. We've been ignoring someone important," Shaw turns to Charles and drops his level tone. "He is going to pay for what he did. And you, Erik, are going to stay there and watch like in good old times."

As if, thinks Erik darkly and commands liquefied metal he dropped earlier to circle the room. As Shaw comes up to Charles Erik uses a thin wire to wind round Shaw's helmet and snatch it up, crying for Charles, both out loud and inside his head.

All this passes in a moment and Shaw freezes like a pillar of salt.

The helmet obediently falls into Erik's hands.

It is almost weightless and is smooth to his touch.

Charles' power is quite apparent, even in his miserable state. Therefore, it would be impossible to know otherwise. And Erik just wants to be sure that he is not being used against his will again.

He puts it on.

And then springs in motion.

Freeing Charles' hands wasn't too tricky, but lowering him flat on his back was, especially since Charles was struggling with him. Having in mind how much his back might be hurting by now, he handles Charles mindfully, gently.

It should be said that Erik's reaction to touching Charles struck him hard. He was conscious of a painful constriction in his chest, which had nothing to do with his injury, for sure. Whilst his worry intensified, he wanted Charles to say something, but he wasn't really in a state to talk, convulsing and panting heavily. His pupils were dilated, eyes unhinged to the point that there was little to no sanity in them.

"It's going to be over very soon," promises him Erik and darts a quick glance at Shaw.

Either something is wrong with his eyes or Shaw's body is shimmering all over. Erik really doesn't fancy their chances in case Shaw gains back control. He molds his metal into a spear and meets Shaw's eyes. He is going to cherish this moment.

And Charles, trapped and horrified, thinks: he is going to kill me.

Unmistakable. He won't be able to go through it twice in a row. He looks at Erik through Shaw's eyes for one last second. Charles doesn't want to go in pain, if anything. But, Erik won't grant him any more time to brace himself. He won't know. Would he care? If he knew? Charles would never know the answer to that. He is unheard, silenced.

In a last ditch attempt to break free, Charles casts his awareness out, into the city. For him time stops.

.

XXII

.

The best revenger scenarios didn't come into play, in the end.

Shaw just collapsed. As did the rest of the city, but that bit Erik was going to find out later.

Charles seized twitching as soon as Shaw went down.

Erik felt torn.

He was also afraid that something went horribly wrong and if a sickly twist in his gut was any indication, something did go wrong.

Kneeling on the floor, surrounded by three bodies, three very familiar bodies, he almost has a breakdown. Is it a riddle? There are three people in the room. A friend, a lover, an enemy. Who's dead? His brain wants an insight. How come he came here to die, yet he is the only one left unscathed?

He mentally prompts himself into action, but he moves slowly, as though underwater.

Fallen Shaw looked older. More wrinkled and frailer. Erik doesn't want to touch him. He must be pretty dead, he thinks, and to be on the safe side drives a blade through his chest.

Angel's skin is already unnaturally pale and her muscles are loose as primary flaccidity settles in. She lies with her shattered skull gracefully covered with mop of dark, sticky hair. Her jaw fell open and lax at the moment of impact, probably. Eyes, on the other hand, are closed. She must have died instantaneously. Erik can't make himself touch her for a different reason.

Charles is alive. It makes all the difference now.

His pulse is barely there, but the mere fact that he is breathing and his heart is beating jars on Erik's feeling of dread.

Although, Charles will need an ambulance, he ponders guiltily.

He takes down a lift, holding onto Charles, and preventing people from calling it. As he steps out into an empty lobby, the sickly feeling of wrongness jumps high. He is too far from the entrance to see, but what he hears is telling enough.

Wailing. Keening and crying on the streets.

Later, under the safety of McCoy's roof Erik will watch the news report about what happened, how every single person collapsed simultaneously. Only for a couple of seconds. But, in many cases, one second was more than enough. Cars were driven from bridges, people crushed by cars, fires broke out and equipment backfired, a plane fell onto the resident area, trains collided. Consequences spiraled on and on.

The entire city was in agony.

.

XXIII

.

When he first touches Erik's mind after he wakes up, Erik is not in the room with him.

Charles is alone in bed with an IV drip in his arm and sourness in his mouth. Feeling detached from his body is not a novelty. What he needs is a reality check, so he slowly lifts his hand to his head and touches the aching spot on his forehead, just below hairline. It itches a little. The tips of his fingers run down his temple to his cheek, discover harshness of grown facial hair and touch his lips, because he recalls how much they hurt. His inspection proves that his mouth is still swollen and tender to touch. As he brushes over his skin there, it feels much too thin, strained over his flesh like a drum head. It is a curious thing, but as he realizes that he is fully and truly awake, he gets very scared. He calls out for someone and the one in the immediate vicinity is Erik.

Erik, who comes sprinting from the kitchen, his hands still wet and dripping fluffy foam from his rolled up sleeves on the floor. There is something wild in his eyes, something tense about the way he freezes on the threshold and leans into the rooms, but hesitates to step in. Ah, it dawns on Charles finally. Erik is very much as afraid as he is.

After Erik does step inside, he doesn't say anything. He does a very good thing instead: sits on the edge of bed and finds Charles' hand among the covers and squeezes it and doesn't let go until their cold hands get warmer from shared touch. He stays like that for a while, tolerating not speaking, not healing, but all too grateful to be there. That much is obvious from his projected thoughts, though Charles has absolutely no inclination to dig deeper. To yield to the influence of silence is easy. He finds it comfortable to fall asleep, knowing that he is not alone, that should he call, Erik will come that instant.

Unfortunately, Charles is not allowed to stay apathetic and distant and on morphine for the rest of his life.

No one bats at eyelid at him standing instead of sitting as they are having a cozy late dinner in Hank's dim-lit kitchen. This is the first time Charles has been on his feet for more than fifteen minutes straight and he congratulates himself on the progress he'd already made. Since the day he woke up, he and Erik have had a silent pact. Do not ask, do not tell.

Charles was banned from watching TV and reading, he was sleeping a lot, wasn't actively looking through anyone's mind and Hank was tiptoeing on eggshells around him. Until tonight, that is.

Hank drops a phrase, which makes Charles' blood go south and sway on his feet.

"Erik, I can't do this anymore. I feel that we should tell them about Shaw's telepath. About what she had done. Otherwise, this witch hunting will only escalate."

"Well done, McCoy," groans Erik and glances at Charles worriedly.

It is quite a challenge to put the plate down on the table when his hands are trembling like hummingbird's wings.

"What happened?"

"I was, erm, I've got ambushed this morning on the parking lot," confesses McCoy somberly, hiding his eyes. "I'm fine, because I know how to wash paint off my clothes, but it won't be paint next time. I've read the stories in a mutant-friendly paper and I'm watching news. So? Honestly? I'm thinking of moving out. I am done with this city and it's done with me. Please, don't judge me."

"Goodness, I'm glad you're alright. But what did you mean? Shaw didn't have… there wasn't…"

"Charles, calm down, please."

Erik is begging, which is new, but very worrisome.

He circles the table and puts his arm round Charles' shoulders and stirs him out of the door, into a corridor and then right into the room they both occupy. Charles is like a stuffed puppet in his hands: he moves how Erik wants him and he doesn't make a sound.

"Have you already read my mind?" asked Erik after he closed the door.

"Yes," breathed out Charles.

He shrank, panting. Then, he stood very still and pale against brown canopy and dark green walls. He seemed to retreat within himself, but that was the last thing Erik wanted him to do.

"I lied to McCoy, because it is the best option we have. Angel is dead. She won't care. But, you are alive, Charles. Damn it, Charles! Look at me!"

Charles glares.

"Don't raise you voice at me, Erik! You don't have any right to talk to me like that! You would have killed me then, together with Shaw. I know. I knew it."

Charles gasps, holding his gaze, and throws a remark, which is worse than any accusation.

"You should have been faster, Erik. You shouldn't have hesitated even for a beat and there would be no need to have this conversation. And this city, though rotten it might be, wouldn't be short on population."

"It's not your burden, Charles! If anyone is to blame, blame Shaw and me. Because, if that was intentional, it means I don't know you at all. Only I know that it wasn't! Am I right? Tell me, am I right?"

"Yes, you're right," Charles echoes as all fight leaves him. "But that doesn't change a fact that I am a mass murderer."

"No, you are not. You're obviously using a wrong definition. Charles? Charles!"

The world swirls and grows dark, and when he blinks his eyes open, he is lying in bed and Erik is hovering over him. There is something wrong with his eyesight, though, because Charles can see only darkness on the periphery and he feels claustrophobic.

"Erik, take it off me," he whispers as politely as he can.

Not only fainting is embarrassing, but the fatigue that follows is actually even more distressing and humiliating. And, in addition, Erik has put that nasty bucket on his head. Where was he hiding it all this time?

"I think you look dashing in it. Shall I fetch a mirror?"

Erik pushes him back when he tries to sit up. Tries is a key word.

"This is not funny, Erik," he hisses this time, "let me go."

"Okay, fine. Go where? You're probably thinking of giving yourself up to police or some other righteous bullshit like that, which I won't allow you to do to yourself anyway."

"We'll see."

"I like your spirit, but we really won't. If necessary, I would keep you like this till we both grow old. And even then I won't let you give up on your life and your incredible power."

"How? How I am supposed to go on like this," he mumbles this question with a falling intonation, while his eyes fill with hot, scalding tears.

Though Erik is not supposed to answer it, he does.

"It's going to be tough, but you can make it."

Whilst Charles breaks into loud sobs, Erik stretches out in bed beside him and holds him close, despite snot and inhuman, strangled noises Charles can't stop making. He had experienced so much sorrow, so much stupidity, so much disillusionment and error, just to end up crying in Erik's arms. His existence, which seemed empty only about two weeks ago, now seems abominable, destructive and hurtful. The hope to rebuild his life anew is unavailable for resurrection. This pain will stay with him forever and he won't be able to escape it even in his sleep. It will turn everything he ever did or will ever do tainted as it will fall drop by drop upon his heart.

"It hurts so much," he mutters and slides his hands around Erik, determined to keep him even closer.

"Yeah, it does."

Erik doesn't stop rubbing circles into Charles' back until Charles, utterly exhausted, runs out of tears. His wet eyelashes stick to his skin like duct tape, and that bloody helmet cuts into his nape, so he rasps, tentatively.

"Can I take it off now?"

"No. Now you go to sleep. Tomorrow, we'll talk again. Don't worry. I'll make sure that you're comfortable."

"I see you don't trust me, in the end."

"Oh, I trust you. But with the helmet between us, I trust you even more."

.

XXIV

.

Wind ruffles Charles' hair, sneaks under his collar, and then throws swept up flurries into his face.

Snow started only an hour ago. Charles wasn't ready for it when he got dressed this afternoon. If the snow hadn't fallen, there would be a lot of rubbish littering the riverside. Cigarette butts and beer cans and sticky wrappings. Latter are always eager to plaster themselves to the soles of his boots. Other tidbits of life wastage, mercifully covered with snow, were even less pleasant.

Thick bold print catches his eye. A torn top of old Daily News cover is still visible. X-day was in headlines for a month until other topics started sneaking in. International politics, elections, crime, entertainment. Life went on, stumbling and staggering and a touch stupefied, but it did.

He takes the stairs, which are going to lead him up to the network of neat walkways along the side of the river. Those are always well-swept and well-lit.

On the last step he stops and squints at wide expanse of dark water. Running and swirling, the flow looks oppressive. This river is always dark because of groundwater. Even when the sun is shining, it makes no difference.

Charles rebuffs himself when he notices that his feet have actually taken a step down without his conscious effort, as though magnetized by the pull.

When Moira sees him she throws herself into his arms, which would never had happened, realized Charles, had she been her usual self. He embraces her gently. He is just glad that she is alive. The news about her fiancé pierced his heart with brute force. He has been one of casualties unfortunate to cross the street and was hit by the car when unknown mutant attacked the city.

After he explains her what he plans to do she gives him a _you must be mad_ look.

"I can't think of anyone else who I'd like to see as a decision-maker. You're perfect for the job. If you want to go into science, you should delegate, of course, but I want your word to be final."

"You want me to preside on the board of directors? Me? Come on, Charles, quit joking."

"I'm extremely serious. Besides, you will enjoy having power over arrogant pretentious snobs, I can tell."

"Ego issues aside, who will appoint me to be a member?"

"I will. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? The procedure takes months sometimes, and I don't see how —"

Charles hampers her worries with a smile and a shake of his head. And a bit of telepathy.

In the evening, Hank and he say goodbye to disguised Erik at the airport. Disgruntled Charles refrains from pointing out that tomorrow he will be able to lend Erik an entire jet. He understands, partially, Erik's aversion to staying in anyone's debt. What Erik doesn't get, however, is that he only needs to hint and Charles will give him everything.

Stuck in such mood, he falls out of conversation for a moment, thoughtlessly letting in a buzz of swarming emotions from the crowd.

"Hey, you alright?"

Hank's presence is moving away. He is going back to his car, realizes Charles. Erik, though, is here. He puts his hand on Charles' shoulder and peers questioningly into his eyes.

"Yes, yes I am."

_I put that bloody bucket into your bag. Use it wisely._

Erik doesn't hide his surprise.

 _I'm not the only telepath you are going to encounter and your safety is a priority where you're going. Please, take care_.

"That's unexpected, thank you. You take care as well and watch out for Mystique."

Erik thinks that she was the one to deliver Charles' briefcase to Shaw and he stressed that even for someone with Charles' skills she might be a nuisance. He also advised Charles to kill her on sight, which didn't settle as well as he might have been hoping it would.

The night Erik leaves is painted white with heavy snowfall, which is settling like wool all over the wounded city. The sky is a merge of yellow and gray.

 

 

 

 


End file.
